More Than Anyone Could Ever Know
by Leximaven
Summary: Harry's life has been enveloped in dark despair, and no one knows how to help him. Draco gets tired of the situation and decides he must step in. This is the story of an unlikely friendship, and a healing of hearts.        Rated T for some minor language
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **No, Harry and Draco and other such wonderful things are not mine. Neither are Crabbe and Goyle, or Ron on his bad days. Wouldn't mind owning Pansy though… Also not mine are the various references to music, literature and other fan-worshipping creations set throughout the story.

**AN: **One thing that perhaps needs to be made clear in this story is the voices. Harry has _two _internal voices speaking to him – he's not hearing things, they're just to symbolise the two different kinds of thoughts, or mental states, which in my experience come with depression. One is the cruel, critical voice that is 'painfully his own' – because it's difficult to have your own mind telling you you're pathetic and it's no wonder everyone hates you. The other voice is detached, and completely emotionless – except for its occasional foray into helpfulness. It shows how, behind the bitterness, and the spiteful voice, Harry is empty inside, and just doesn't care anymore.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Harry trudged down one of the many corridors of Hogwarts castle, walking some distance behind his two best friends. They were bickering; again. Ron had tried to copy Hermione's homework. Or had Hermione rubbed Ron's nose in her high grades? Maybe Hermione had caught Ron ogling Lavender again. Perhaps Ron felt Hermione was too eloquent in her praise of Victor Krum. To be honest, Harry didn't actually know. He could barely hazard a guess; he hadn't really been paying attention to his friends' lives for… Well, for a very long time.

As he walked, he couldn't help but notice his feet dragging. Ron and Hermione had long since grown used to the rhythmic sound, but Harry noticed it with every step. He knew it wasn't a good sign, but he sensed the danger as if from a distance. He vaguely noticed the books hugged defensively to his chest, face virtually buried in the mound; he made note of the eyes, never straying further than the point of his shoes. Yes, he saw it all, but it had never occurred to him to really try and change.

The idea had come to others of course, but Harry had been quick to shoot it down. Or rather, he hadn't: he'd felt empty for a long time, unable to conjure emotion, except for the occasional welling of bitter rage; doing anything _quickly _or _emphatically _was simply out of the question. The responses to his almost abrupt change were varied, but unsurprising: Ron had blamed him, arguing every little point and criticising Harry's dull mood constantly. Hermione had tried to rationalize, shooting question after question with a thin veil of supposed patience; sometimes the expected response of _answering_ didn't even occur to him, and he blinked back at her, face chillingly empty. Mostly, though, the answers floated into being slowly and he just couldn't think how to get them to the surface. For some unknown reason, the only time his thoughts were fast flowing was when they were spewing forth a torrent of self-recrimination and disgust, the nasty voice in his head picking at any kind of pride of self – that voice that was so unbearably his own.

After Ron and Hermione, there was Ginny. At least she got some reaction out of him, Harry mused. She had been blessed with some kind of response to her pains, rather than a vacant staring; she got anger. Ginny… she'd tried to charm and coax him out of his anguish by constantly smiling, even going so far as to instruct him to do the same, in the sort of tones that would be condescending even to a three year old. She seemed to think that with one smile his world would return to sunshine, rather than continuing on, enveloped in dark despair.  
>No, Harry knew that thoughts like that were uncharitable. He understood that Ginny was scared by his listlessness, and that she desperately wanted it to just go away – he vaguely acknowledged that her pain and suffering was his fault, knew he should feel some kind of guilt, but again it was just detached knowledge.<p>

Lastly there were the teachers. One or two had tried to get him to talk, to no avail. Harry could distinctly remember sitting before Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, the unfamiliar couch setting making him extremely uncomfortable as they voiced their concern. Then there was the long meeting with Madam Pomfrey; he'd sat in a too-reclined seat, too defensive to relax back into it, but feeling too conspicuous leaning forward. She'd talked on and on, leaving pauses for him to contribute – pauses filled by his head nodding, eyes darting round the room then resting on his twisted hands. She'd come up with some convoluted theory to explain his uncharacteristic behaviour, and without his instruction that head had nodded eagerly, pretending she had a miraculous insight into his soul. Really, Harry had just accepted the fantastic (read fanciful) explanation because if a professional was coming up with it, it must be acceptable. Who knew how much of a freak his true mental patterns would prove him to be?  
>Of course after that there were the rumours, and questions: was Harry Potter really seeing the mediwitch for counselling? Whispers behind hands, darting looks; the only blessing was he was too tired to guess at their words.<p>

When he'd first started sinking off their radars, Harry had felt momentary relief, quickly followed by despair. The only thing he wanted more than being left alone was someone to persistently try and save him. When whole days went by without any acknowledgement of his existence besides Ginny's smiles, the flame of hope began to flicker. It had been months now, and the teachers and students had finally settled into an acceptance of his new state, content to ignore him. He felt he should rejoice; after all, hadn't that been what he'd always wanted? But the blackness just descended further, smothering him a little more firmly.

Exhausted by this desolate train of thought, Harry returned his attention to his feet; they were safe. If he could get through the walk to his next class, he could just sit; focus on his work and try not to think. A quick dinner, followed by a slow walk back to Gryffindor tower, alone; focus on his homework, and then he could sleep. One day down. Strangely, Harry never contemplated the fact that one day down meant more ahead; maybe his mind wouldn't let him, knew he'd be crushed under the weight of time and life. No, Harry just knew that if he made it to the end of today, he'd be ok.

_Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp…_ The noise was repetitive, but not soothing, he noticed. The sound said to him, "I am your feet. See? See how I move? With each step, you bring yourself closer to your goal, to the next moment, to existence and time. Rejoice." And so he did, a little.

His eyes watched his feet: their gaze never drifted as close as his ankles, and rarely travelled further than an inch from his toes; on a good day, he could see half a metre ahead of his feet. And if no one was passing, he may get a good look at the general terrain for several metres up ahead. But mostly, Harry noticed his feet. The detached voice regularly informed him that it wasn't a good thing; a sign of bad self-esteem. He needed to look up, up; and not just to check his surroundings. "One day," he said to himself, "one day I'll stare ahead as I walk. One day I'll be proud, I promise me." Over the weeks he'd tried this, tried to make his vision focus higher and higher, and for longer periods of time. Very recently, he'd managed about the height of a passer-by's lower ribs for a few, long, seconds.

But today he made it further, and that one look would change his life. There was no conscious thought in it, other than the voice disinterestedly whispering, _'Higher, higher… You promised.'_ His eyes had pushed up, past his toes, moving fast now, just a glance, no more than blurs: Hermione's book bag, bobbing angrily against her hip; Ron's hunched shoulders, neck tinged red above the collar. His eyes roved quickly; he felt nervous, thought he must look shifty. "Quick!" he told his eyes, "You must fix to a point!"

And so they did.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Draco sauntered down one of the many corridors of Hogwarts castle, flanked on either side by his two brainless cronies. They were bickering; again. Crabbe had eaten Goyle's piece of pie. Or had Goyle rubbed Crabbe's nose in his superior nerd-bludgeoning skills? Maybe Crabbe had caught Goyle eyeing off Pansy. Perhaps Goyle felt Crabbe was being too eloquent to maintain the status of thug (Ok, so that was unlikely). To be honest, Draco didn't actually know. He would never exert himself to hazard a guess, as he'd never bothered to pay attention to the idiotic pair's mutterings.

As he walked, he couldn't help but notice A Sound. Of course, there were the two halfwits arguing, but The Sound was only slightly familiar; it pulled at his senses, calling on his memory. The tugging was less than pleasing, and Draco didn't trust uncomfortable feelings; too often they were brought about by his conscience, an unappealing luxury he refused to afford (and couldn't, really, considering his father's line of work). So he ignored the gnawing at the back of his mind, shrugged off the tangy taste of knowledge on the tip of his tongue, and frowned.

Arguing halfwits: the Weasel and his mudblood girlfriend must be around the corner. No, of course Draco didn't mean his goons when he said 'halfwits', and yes, he was sure. Why? Because they didn't have _any _wits, let alone half. (Anyway, how dare you question the Malfoy heir?) Besides, the sound of the two behind him was as much background noise as his own breathing; his mind didn't even acknowledge the disturbance. No, the only two sounds distinct to his ear were the growling of the Golden Lapdogs, and That Bloody Sound ('_Dear Merlin, would someone make it stop?'_): _Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… _The usually rhythmic sound skipped a beat, adding a dramatic, fast-paced '_shp' _as its creator stumbled. Stumbling meant feet.

And suddenly it all clicked into place: Potter. Draco had been hearing that irritating noise all over the castle, and it was always followed by the appearance of his rival. _Past _rival, he corrected himself; the two hadn't argued in months, and even if he were to attempt starting one, he sincerely doubted the other boy would have the energy (insofar as a Malfoy could do anything _sincerely_).

Now that he understood the source, Draco allowed himself to give in to the thoughts that were no longer nagging but flooding his mind. So, Perfect Potter was dragging his feet; Draco derisively noted that it wasn't a good sign, channelling all his annoyance into the sneer that accompanied this thought.

But wait, "all his annoyance"? Why _was _he so annoyed? It's not like Potter had done anything to him personally, not in a long time; and for several weeks now the rest of the world had been treating him distinctly _less _like a God in human form. (Draco almost snorted at the thought; what kind of God couldn't control his own hair?) So now that everyone had joined Draco's own opinion – that there was nothing whatsoever special about the boy – why was he filled with frustration, and itching to punch someone?

Hang on, that was new. He was frustrated? _Why_ for Merlin's sake? Draco was unused to such in-depth thought about his own feelings, but allowed the musings to continue; he was curious. Well first of all there was the noise itself: it was enough to drive anyone mad. But surely it shouldn't create _this _level of frustration, not when he'd regularly been taking it out on the Quidditch pitch (another strange symptom: Potter had given up his position on the Gryffindor team). So what possible reason was there for Draco to be frustrated more than was appropriate for a Malfoy? What usually had the power of getting to him? Let's see: Gryffindors, Weasley's, idiots like Pansy fawning all over him, idiots like the entire world fawning all over Potter, and people failing to notice the obvious. Oh, right.

Months ago, the repetitive noise of dragging feet had begun to echo around the castle and Draco had recognised it instantly for what it was: Potter was depressed. Accustomed to the teachers and little Gryffs fawning all over the miracle boy, Draco had waited for them to start making a fuss, mocking taunts already forming in his mind (of which 'Not-So-Golden-Now-More-Like-A-Dull-Bronze Boy' was not his best effort). But it didn't happen.

Oh sure, people had begun to tiptoe around him, anxious not to disturb the boy's thoughts or delicate mental state; people had tiptoed, and some teachers had kicked up a very, very, small fuss and shipped him off to Madam Pomfrey. Whispers had echoed through the school, curious eyes boring into Potter as he dragged himself through the halls, and then… they just stopped. People got used to the Hero of the Wizarding World slinking around like a shadow, and the echo of his footsteps became as much a part of Hogwarts life as the wailing of the Bloody Baron or the gossiping of the portraits.

So the sound continued; people stopped noticing the noise, no one interfered, and with every repetitive, grating step Draco wanted to scream all the more (Not that he ever would; Malfoys did **not** lose their composure), partly because it was really irritating, but mostly because he _didn't know why; _why was everyone so cavalier about Potter's obvious depression? Why had such proof of his vulnerability and imperfection rendered the boy invisible? Were they really that shallow? Well, yes, they were, but how did they not realise it, and hate themselves? After all, it went against every one of their oh-so-high standards. _Why _was no one trying to help the boy? Draco just did not understand… and it was driving him _mental_!

Throughout this unusual and lengthy introspection the raised voices of Weasel and Granger had been getting louder, as had that infernal dragging of feet, window to so much more. Both sounds served to aggravate the annoyance created by his thoughts, and by the time he and his shadows rounded a corner and came face to face with the Gryffindor Three, Draco was itching for a fight.

The twin sounds of bickering died away as four of the six students settled into glaring at their house rivals, momentarily united against a common enemy. This was the usual way things began, a moment of calm before the storm; all it took now was one comment from either side, and the battle would begin. Draco had been fully prepared to make that comment, but the all-encompassing glare he'd meant to direct at the Gryffindors had been unexpectedly intercepted, altering both his expression, and his impression.

Ron and Hermione may have found it unusual that Draco was no longer sneering or glaring, but his effeminate features were now marred by a frown as he regarded the subject of his earlier musings, and they considered this aggressive enough, considering the distinct lack of head-to-head battles lately. Crabbe and Goyle, however, wouldn't have found Harry's vacant (though in this case, slightly surprised) expression unusual for two reasons: firstly, they were unlikely to notice, one of several side-effects of such a distinct lack of intelligence; and secondly, it had been a long time since those famous features had portrayed anything else.

As he'd heard the trio's rapid approach, Draco had deliberately sought out the face of the boy he'd just been considering; consciously, he'd simply meant to begin his assault without delay, but perhaps his subconscious had been hoping to find some answers written there, maybe even something to relieve a little of this strange tension. No matter his intention, the result was the same: all thoughts ebbed away, and Draco could do nothing but stare. Harry, on the other hand, had raised his eyes at the urging of that detached voice, looked into the face of another for the first time in many months, and found himself caught. The end result was that both boys froze there, gazes locked and somehow withstanding the confusing flood of emotions, while their companions stood tense and oblivious, distracted from the Moment by their own Mexican stand-off.

If he was totally honest, Draco would struggle in hindsight to explain why he'd been unable to look away. Perhaps it had something to do with the look of wonder spreading over Potter's face; or maybe it was those startling green eyes, cold with despair, as his own had been long ago. Whatever the reason, Draco _wasn't _honest, even with himself, and would later rationalize it as some semblance of the great staring contests of old.

Harry, though, he knew exactly why his gaze was so transfixed, and it had everything to do with those equally startling grey eyes, and the depth of emotion and meaning conveyed by them. They were creased by frown lines, and he absently noted that the stormy depths seemed troubled, regarding him with something he'd describe as worry if it had been evident in anyone else's face. He'd tried to push his progress further forward, tried to hold his head high as he walked, and in doing so had shifted his eyes from their contemplation of his feet, straight to the face of Draco Malfoy – and Malfoy had seen him. Some spark of light seemed to pierce the darkness, and Harry was lit up with wonder. For the first time in his memory, here was someone looking at him – _really _looking, staring at his face as if trying to divine the secrets of the universe; someone who was looking at him, and meaning to see.

And just like that, it was over. The classroom door opened, the six students jumped, the professor beckoned them in, and the moment had ended.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>This is my first chapter fic, so I'm very excited. A lot of the experiences with depression were based on my own, though I've hammed up the dragging of feet to give a bit more symbolism to the story. However, I do have one strong memory of kind of absently taking note of my body language while walking to class one day, and I did really set myself goals of looking up more when I was walking. Five years on, I still catch myself forcing my eyes up if I'm surrounded by people I don't know, or having a bad day.

Ginny's reaction I personally find vastly irritating. In fact this may explain her getting the reaction of anger: my friends didn't want to see that I was depressed, so they would try and make me smile. Every day, every recess and lunch, at least twice, I would hear, "Eeeeriiin, smiiiiiiiiiiile!" Yeah, irritating much? So eventually they did get a reaction out of me: I blew up. Lots of ranting about feeling like shit, and having a crap life, and no, I wasn't going to smile just because they told me to. A few seconds of awkward silence… "Erin?" I look up to see the biggest grin on her face. I'm pretty sure I got up and left.

Oh my goodness, the awkward conversations with teachers, and that inevitable day they ship you off to the counsellor. _What is with those chairs? _They really are ridiculous – they are SO reclined you're basically Freudian, and so vulnerable, but if you sit forward you feel hunched and awkward. Stupid stupid invention.

Writing this story has really helped me come to terms with my depression, and has taken away some of the power of the memories; it _really, really _does help to talk about it. That being said, you're more than welcome to share your own experiences, I'm happy to be a listening ear for anyone who needs one.

Not that this is relevant, but I thought someone reading this might like an explanation of the title; I always like to understand them. 'More than anyone could ever know' comes from 'I Need You' by 3T – yes, they are Michael Jackson's nephews, yes he sings background vocal, yes the video clip is TERRIFYING – yes it is still one of my favourite songs in the world. It happened to be playing when I felt like writing something new; I wrote that as the title, and just started typing… Somehow it worked. So the actual lyrics go "I need you, and I couldn't live a day without you. I need you, more than anyone could ever know." That applies to the eventual relationship between Draco and Harry, plus the actual title fits their unlikely friendship – there is (or will be) more between them than is good for anyone to find out about.

One last thing (I never write a short AN when I can write a long one), the timeline. I don't have a specific place that it fits – I wanted this to be up to you, whenever _you_ think the events are likely to occur, hence, no mention of Voldie. However, references to the war have crept in at points. Feel free to ignore them or not, at your discretion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **No, sadly I do not own the wonderful ideas I've heard in many songs and read in many books, or the characters of Rowling's Harry Potter. I am merely a sponge; wring me out, and this story is the result. (Partly AN: there are one or two quotes/references in here, each marked with *; I'll list the sources at the end.)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Several hours later it was dinnertime in the Great Hall, and Draco was wandering the corridors. He told himself he just couldn't find the patience to put up with his fellow Slytherins, but really he was lacking the appetite to stomach a meal.

Draco felt… shaken. However hard he tried, he was unable to shake the disquieting awareness he'd been tethered with following the 'staring contest' with Potter. The look in his eyes, that unfathomable pit of misery and desolation – it was far too familiar. The same empty orbs had stared at him accusingly from the mirror for years, nestled in a face terrifyingly void of emotion, and they frightened him even now. Every day he fought the overwhelming darkness, each day, week and month that he did not slip back a silent triumph. But seeing that face, those eyes… he may as well have been in front of the mirror again, and he had fought too damn hard to let that happen.

That's how Draco knew, knew he had to do everything in his power to bring Potter away from that path. Because no one else was doing a damn thing, and there was no way he could sit by and watch another person walk that road alone, fuck the Malfoy code of conduct. Having reached a conclusion, Draco's thinking was now to the purpose of reconciling his nature to this resolution. I mean, it _was _Potter he was proposing to help; Potter who, despite recent circumstances, had been nothing more than a pain in his side for years. Besides, Draco knew he himself was far from innocent; why should the Gryffindor welcome his assistance?

Unfortunately, all such thoughts were interrupted, perhaps even at the key moment, by a sound – _Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp…_  
>The rhythmic shuffle forced its way into his hearing, and he was unable to block it out. It grated like sandpaper, somehow managing to grind away all Draco's good intentions, and allowing his irritation, animosity and fear to come flooding back. As he rounded a final corner, there ahead of him was the Boy Saviour himself.<p>

And before he was even aware of it, Draco was hurrying forwards, venomous words pooling on his tongue. One part of him was frantically screaming. '_What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing? You'll just make it worse!' _Another part, the one that was in control, was hastily rationalising his actions. _'Maybe, just maybe, if I can get him angry he'll be ok. All I have to do is insult him, he'll show some emotion, and we'll be back to wringing each other's necks within a week.' _He was catching up to Potter now, and, ignoring the insignificant fact that _no _part of him believed his flimsy excuse, Draco opened his mouth:

"Walking alone after dark, Potter?" He spat out the name like it was the very poisonous disease he was fighting against. "Didn't…?"_ 'Mummy dearest ever teach you about Stranger Danger?'_

But the words had died in his throat as Harry turned, quietly ready to accept whatever pain the Universe, and the Slytherin Prince, meant to throw at him today. Draco could hear the outraged "What do you want Malfoy?" echoing through the corridor – But it was all in his head, and the shout never broke the silence between them. The thought occurred to him that _this_ Harry wouldn't even know how to shout. This Harry had calmly ceased his dragging walk, turned slowly to face his attacker; his eyes seemed to never have known defiance. In fact, Draco couldn't even _see_ his eyes as Potter seemed to be focussing somewhere around his knees. Having hung from the ledge where the other boy was standing,* Draco was well aware that even this height, against such a foe, was an enormous effort.

To hold one's head high requires pride, and that was the first casualty of this bastard of a disease.*It worked by gnawing away at your triumphs and successes, your good traits; a voice that was painfully your own whispered ugly words of hate and disgust in your ear, and you took heed. Sometimes a person would try and convince you otherwise – tell you you're handsome, and smart, and funny, and talented… (Though not so much in Draco's case; he'd been truly alone.) But it didn't matter, because they were only words. Somehow, your own critical thoughts are never just words: they are truths.

The deflated, cowed boy before him bore no resemblance to the feisty, defiant creature Draco had been faced with in the past, but everything is relative. Considering the state Potter was in right now, this was probably as argumentative as he had been in many weeks, excluding the occasional burst of pent up anger. So, he did have some strength left in him then. Good; strength meant you could fight.

Yet even as he watched, Potter's head drooped lower and lower, his shoulders hunching in a way that poisoned Draco inside. He sighed. Even with all the strength in the world, the fight would be one hell of a battle; but despite any objections to Potter himself, Draco was still determined to make someone else's struggle easier than his had been. No one should have to struggle against the outside world quite as hard as they do against themselves; it is simply asking too much. So he walked forward slowly and cautiously, ignoring the second stab of pain when Potter didn't even flinch – he was too far gone to fear the threat of Draco. Now he was standing right beside him, the closest they'd ever been without having physically attacked each other. Draco opened his mouth and, speaking softly, began.

"You know, if you keep dragging your feet around like that you'll wear out your shoes in a couple of months." No response, but his keyed up senses noticed the tension _sloowly _beginning to slide away from Potter's shoulders. He gestured with one elegant hand, began to walk, and Harry followed.

"So I heard the Cannons finally had a win last weekend. Weasley follows them, doesn't he? They're saying it was the first in over three centuries. Merlin, but Quidditch is old… The great and noble sport, don't they call it? Though it is the only sport… We're not the most imaginative lot, us magical folk. But three hundred years! Don't you think you would've given in by now? I wonder how they managed it… Against the Holyhead Harpies too, the most vicious team in the league. Though they have to be, I suppose, to keep up their reputation. And show up those sexist bastards in the Ministry – you know they're still insisting that women shouldn't play Quidditch? Fools. They've obviously never seen the Weasley girl on a broom."

Draco continued rambling, keeping his tone measured. The trick was to never stay on one topic too long – that way Harry's mind couldn't grow accustomed enough to spin off on its own tangent and betray him. "We Malfoys of course have always followed the Ballycastle Bats, no surprise there. So, I believe, does Professor Snape… Ironic, isn't it? Though personally I've always had a soft spot for the Falmouth Falcons – they're amazing birds, falcons, though not my favourite bird of prey. I'm quite fond of my eagle owl really, Artemis I named him. You have a snowy, right?"

And as Harry nodded, a small word managed to escape his silence, almost of its own accord: "Hedwig."  
>It had begun.<p>

o0o0o0o0o0o

Sitting in class that afternoon, Harry couldn't keep Malfoy out of his head. The other boy's grey eyes seemed to worm their way through any chinks in his usually tight focus. Where there weren't flaws to be found, they pulled out a hammer and chisel, chipping away at Harry's brain until he gave in, exhausted, and let his mind sink into those cool grey depths. Unfortunately, with his guard so destroyed, his own cruel voice could slip in too – But it didn't seem to bother him today, the poisonous words drifting like whispers of mist above the calming water where his mind was submerged. He took them in, yes, he still believed them, but then he let them float away on the breeze – for what did they matter?

The distraction had been such that Harry was left with slightly more homework than usual. As Malfoy had apparently avoided the Great Hall, and there was work to be done, he'd slipped away from dinner slightly earlier than usual, murmuring some pointless excuse to his friends. They nodded vaguely in his direction, Ginny with a distracted smile that didn't reach her eyes, and he was away with no incident. Initiating this small amount of contact, while difficult, was actually instrumental in keeping their attention _away _from him; without it, the wordless absences, mysterious in their silence, would only bring about more painfully awkward conversations.

The most confusing thing about Harry's state of mind was that he desired, craved, he _needed _his friends to notice – but he cunningly and manipulatively did his utmost to ensure that they _wouldn't. _(It was all rather Slytherin, really. Always listen to wise old hats that have no business opening their mouths, or even having them for that matter; for if a hat takes the trouble to say something to you, it's probably dreadfully important.)

Really, Harry avoided their attention for a simple reason: all those months ago, when people _had _seen his turmoil, it was all anyone would talk about. It was the subject of every conversation, whether openly or not; when he wasn't being criticised for his depressed mood, or questioned as to its source, it was the metaphorical elephant in the room – people talked around it, and the yawning chasm left by the silence was as painful to Harry as its contemplation. Depression had defined his life. But now, while from one side his current silence sounded suspiciously like defeat – filled as it was with lonely and despairing thoughts – viewed from another angle it could be seen as a small defiance, a control of the control.

As Harry began the long, lonely walk back to Gryffindor tower, he thought about what he needed from his friends. He knew it wasn't fair to expect them to know themselves, especially having never been in his situation, but he would never be able to explain: the self-loathing part of him wouldn't let the words out, condemning him to this punishment of solitary silence, and there was really no other way to make them see, short of putting them through the same hell. All Harry wanted someone to talk to him, to acknowledge his existence without having to focus on his illness. He wanted no pressure to be happy, to fix himself, to meet any kind of standards, or even to talk. He wanted someone to spend time with him because he was Harry (though not Harry Potter), not because they were concerned about his bloody mental state!

His ruminations, already periodically interrupted by the ever-present dragging of feet, were disrupted further by hurried footsteps behind him, and a loud call in a familiar voice. That voice was full of spite, and after their brief eye-contact in the corridor earlier, it surprised Harry.

'_Why?' _The reproachful voice was quick to ask. _'Why should it surprise you that a person would speak to you with malice – especially when that person is Malfoy? What makes you so wonderful, that no one could ever have a problem with you? Even Ron, your first and oldest friend is fed up. You're no fun anymore Potter; you drag yourself around the castle looking for all the world like someone's died.'_

'_People HAVE died!' _Harry was quick to defend himself, but his own voice merely waved away such trivial details:

'_You're pathetic.'_

With this little tirade running through his mind, Harry was painfully aware of his shoulders scrunching, eyes keeping low as he turned to face Malfoy – the only person, it seemed, still willing to act like nothing had changed. But then the Slytherin's words trailed off, and Harry was almost too tired to feel surprised this time. He just waited as the anger on Malfoy's face became a look of desperation, quickly morphing into resignation, and finally settling on determination – though he saw none of this, eyes hovering closer to the floor than the blonde's face.

He waited, and something distinctly odd happened: Malfoy approached him. When he spoke again, his voice was almost gentle, kind of friendly – companionable, Harry decided. "You know, if you keep dragging your feet around like that you'll wear out your shoes in a couple of months."

So someone else had been just as conscious of the awful, shuffling drag; he almost could have smiled at the thought. Draco would never know how perfect that choice of words had been as Harry felt himself begin to relax, the constant voice momentarily stunned into silence by the knowledge that someone had noticed, and commented without criticising, or questioning, or interfering.

As the two boys directed their steps towards Gryffindor Tower that voice would have sought to interrupt the unlikely camaraderie, but Harry was carried along by the wave of Draco's words and refused to let his mind pull him away again.

After some thoughtless rambling about Quidditch teams and birds of prey, which somehow led into Draco's suspicions of various teachers' sex lives – a topic which _did _earn a smile from Harry (who cares if it said 'Ew!' more than 'lol', a smile's a smile) – the two finally reached the portrait on the seventh floor. Ignoring the distrustful stare of the Fat Lady, Malfoy again turned to face him. Their eyes met once more as one boy regarded the other, a searching look on his face. Harry simply watched Draco watch him (counting the shades in those watchful eyes – they seemed to be specked with a much darker grey, almost blue in its intensity), as Malfoy took quick stock of his body language. Within moments it was over, and he stepped back.

"Do me a favour?" Malfoy waited for the slight incline of the head, the acceptance in the green eyes. "Don't over-think this." With those four words, Harry knew exactly what he was referring to. If he started to question this the voice would take over; Malfoy had opened up the possibility of making progress, but with analysis, with questioning, he would only slip further back. (For a moment Harry marvelled at Draco's understanding – not over-emphasised, not matter-of-fact, just there. Somehow he knew how much he could say safely; how to acknowledge the situation without mentioning or dwelling on it.) Again Harry nodded, and relief momentarily flashed over Malfoy's face, gone so fast he almost doubted it was ever there.

"I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, he turned a corner and was gone.

"What were you doing with that boy? He's a Malfoy you know, and a _Slytherin_; nasty creatures." Harry turned to the Fat Lady just in time to see her shudder with distaste. He quietly gave her the password and waited out her criticism while staring, not at the floor, he noticed, but at the stonework of the wall. When she realised he wasn't listening, the portrait swung open with a loud 'harrumph', and Harry stepped into the empty Common Room.

Ten minutes later he was set up at his usual table in the corner, the day's homework piled before him. With a steadying breath, he read over the first essay topic, opened his book, and began. Surprisingly, the evening's unusual events didn't affect his concentration nearly as much as the chance encounter earlier in the day. On the contrary, Harry settled to each task with unexpected ease, even feeling a little warmer inside, though winter's chill fingers gripped the castle harder than ever.

When the other students started drifting up from dinner, he still noticed the dismissive glances cast his way – the usual over-looking of the pathetic figure huddled in the corner. But that night the detached voice, though unchanged, suddenly became the voice of reason worth listening to. It told him that their analysis was the result of his recent behaviour, and not his character – he'd noticed this before, in his absent sort of way, but somehow tonight it was true. The information _clicked_.

When Ron and Hermione entered they were as unaware of his presence as usual, and to be honest (though he was highly conscious of them being there) Harry paid them as little attention. Most nights their treatment of him would add further fuel to the flame of self-loathing, and that little voice would speak all the louder for it; he didn't get his homework done as quickly after that, and would often disappear to the library to avoid the interruption. But tonight Harry stayed in the comfort of the Common Room, and let that tiny glow of warmth drown out the cold that followed them, like an icy gust, through the portrait-hole.

A few hours later he glanced up to find that Ginny was suddenly seated at his table. She appeared most nights, avoiding his eye as much as he did hers, as if it was too painful to look upon his face. The words flowed off her tongue, her tone staying bright and cheery, as she prayed for some tiny response from him – though she never expected one. Tonight Harry managed to be slightly more aware, felt that his features were somewhat less vacant than usual. He actually wanted to hear her speak, to feel that connection to the outside world.

His slight noise of amusement interrupted her diatribe against "bloody bimbos who can't even tell the difference between a fairy and a pixie", and he was rewarded with a bright grin, her face lit up as if from within. He felt awkward under such a gaze, especially when she began to ask if he was feeling better, but it felt good to make Ginny smile. She was a nice girl, with such a fiery personality – but she was sensitive, and he hated being the one to cast a shadow over her light.

At last his homework was done, and Harry could drag himself wearily up the stairs to his dorm. As usual he was the first to go to bed: partly because he was so desperate for the day to be done, for that little success to be achieved; and partly because he was just so tired. He had to admit, it was also design in part as he felt less conspicuous preparing for sleep, drawing the curtains round his private space, when there were no others in the room.

Though he was always first in bed, Harry would rarely be asleep before any of the others. After a particularly difficult day, while the curtains shielded his miserable form from prying eyes and his body was wracked with sobs, Harry might fall into an exhausted slumber, to awake the next day with swollen eyes and salt on his face. But most nights he lay awake, listening to the loud preparations of his roommates, so used to his forbidding curtains that they forgot he was there.

Long after their breathing became even, he would lie in his bed, eyes fixed open and staring. The silence was smothering, the heavy blanket of the dark serving only to amplify those malicious whisperings of his inner voice. It went through every moment of his day, finding every possible source of misery. It reminded him, as the night wore on, that in a matter of hours he would have to get up, and it would all begin again. It taunted him about what tomorrow might bring.

But not tonight. Tonight, _he _smothered the _darkness_, replacing it on an impulse with the glow of candles. Tonight that taunting voice, muted for so many hours, was kept at bay by the hope in his chest. Tonight Harry lay in the silence, feeling his eyes drift closed, and let himself rest in the promise of "tomorrow".

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>After many hours putting this off, I have finally reviewed chapter 2 at 3 in the morning… Hopefully it makes sense, and I haven't left in too many gross abuses of grammar and understanding. Thank you most heartily to my two reviewers! Thanks also to those who added me to your story alerts. Thanks to anyone who reads this and smiles.

**Blatant theft:  
><strong>"And I was once there, hanging from that very ledge where you are standing. And I know, I know, I know, it's easier to let go." – _Nightminds, _Missy Higgins

"It's a weird smile, but it reaches his eyes and I bottle it. And I put it in my ammo pack that's kept right next to my soul. The one that holds Mia's scent and Justine's spirit and Siobhan's hope and Tara's passion. Because if I'm going to wake up one morning and not be able to get out of bed, I'm going to need everything I've got to fight this bastard of a disease that could be sleeping inside of me." – _Saving Francesca_, Melina Marchetta


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Harry Potter, why would the epilogue have been filled with little red-headed Potters? Other than because Ginny kicks butt… But yeah, not mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

Draco walked Potter from the Entrance Hall to Gryffindor Tower nearly every day for the next few weeks. He became quite a regular in the kitchens, never bothering to attend dinner first: Potter ate very little, and as he wasn't inclined to socialise, left the meal as soon as possible; Draco would wait in the shadows, falling into step beside the boy as he passed – though if someone else was in the hall, he would simply wait in the next corridor in Potter's path.

Sometimes the inner voice of the Malfoy heir would sneer at him, asking why he'd ever go through so much trouble simply to _talk_ to the tragic little hero of the Wizarding World. _'What are you getting out of this? He doesn't even react, doesn't appreciate you at all. Here's your chance: take it, grind him into the dust… Show the Wizarding World who the _true _hero is!'_

Then the voice of Draco, with his newfound and hard-won pride of self, would snarl at it to _'shut the hell up, you don't control me now'_; and when Potter turned the corner, Draco would watch his eyes light up with warmth as he stepped out of the shadows. Something in those eyes melted a forgotten place deep within his own heart, and Draco knew that until he saw the other boy smile, and laugh, and hold his head high, these walks would continue. He wouldn't leave Potter alone in the dark, _couldn't, _not now that he could finally see the light.

When Draco had a detention and couldn't make it to their little meetings, his improved relationship with the house elves revealed itself to be quite useful: he'd duck by the kitchens to grab a quick meal before meeting his fate, and wheedle one of the house elves (usually Dobby, who was very worried about Mr Harry Potter sir, he hadn't been to see Dobby in some time, oh no sir) into dropping a note under Harry's plate, the edge poking out where only he could see it.

'_Alas, I have detention _again_ tonight. It does interfere so with my usual schedule! What a relief that I'll be headed to the library at, say, eight o'clock, and can be sure to perform any important tasks on the way there.'_

This method worked quite well, not giving Harry's irrational mind any reason to make him lose faith. However, there was no note to be left the night of his first detention, a week into their little routine, and Draco had been concerned; he knewexactly how Potter's critical voice would force him to interpret his absence. After spending several hours spent cleaning and dusting an entire wing of unused classrooms, he'd assured Professor McGonagall that yes, he had definitely learnt his lesson. What he didn't say was that the evening had been torturous not because of its monotony, but because of his own worry and guilt. When she'd dismissed him with a severe nod, Draco rushed straight to the seventh floor, letting his feet guide him to the Gryffindor entrance.

Lingering in a passage way and watching the Fat Lady gossip and giggle with some other painting, he'd felt his heart beat fast in his chest. His mind repeated some wordless mantra, a wish, a prayer that Potter would walk out in the next seconds… Now that he was paying attention, he'd quickly noticed that Harry went to the library to escape the emotional dangers of the Common Room after a trying day – something he could also identify quickly thanks to his new attentiveness. After his earlier no-show, Draco had a feeling this would be another tough night.

An hour later the waiting had paid off and Harry stepped through the portrait-hole. His eyes were cast down, shoulders hunched under the weight of that blanket of darkness – Draco had inwardly cursed his own idiocy for hexing that bloody Hufflepuff when McGonagall was walking by. As Harry passed he'd waited for a moment before falling into step a few paces behind him; his voice was quiet, tone much closer to apologetic than you'd imagine a Malfoy's could ever be.

"Sorry I'm late. What are we studying tonight?"

Harry had jumped, then actually given Draco a small, relieved smile. When he'd spoken, after a pause to gather his words, his voice was surprisingly sweet, addressing the Slytherin in welcoming tones for the first time. There was forgiveness in there too, and a warmth which tightened around the blonde's chest for a moment, making it difficult to breathe. And there was gratitude, seeping in at the edges, bringing back the forgotten stab of pain.

"I was thinking potions – you could help me with that essay."

For a moment Draco had been filled with longing; he wanted nothing more than to sit with Harry in some forgotten corner of the library and work side by side. He wanted to hear that voice again, telling him about some bizarre concoction older than Merlin, wanted to see those green, green eyes looking to him for guidance. But he couldn't.

That first night was the hardest, what with the awkward moment after Harry called his bluff, Draco casting about wildly for some acceptable reason why he couldn't join the Gryffindor… Thankfully, he understood the impossibility without Draco needing to explain; but the guilt still gnawed at the Slytherin, so he made up for it by throwing himself into the conversation, making the trek to the library as enjoyable as he could. But he never went in.

Malfoy's past actions had proved the simplicity with which a tradition can begin, and this was no different. Each night that Harry found a note under his plate he'd make up some excuse for Ginny, throwing it to Ron and Hermione as he walked past them and out the portrait-hole. As he passed the secret passageway that led to the Transfiguration classrooms, Draco would step out of the darkness and Harry would frown. His voice steeped in mock disapproval, he'd ask, "And what time do you call this?" Every night Draco answered differently, one night offering up a sheepish "I fell asleep writing my History of Magic essay" (Harry couldn't blame him), another night granting him a smug "The Ravenclaw had it coming."

As the weeks went by, Draco watched as Harry's eyes focused higher and higher, his posture seeming to straighten. He'd walk past a courtyard, and catch a glimpse out of his eye: Harry sitting and talking with the Weasley girl, the shadow of a smile on his face. Walking down a corridor, they'd pass each other, and Draco would notice Harry pick up the pace, throwing back his shoulders, as if his presence was a reminder of the other boy's goal.

Pretty soon, the companionable walks became a daily pleasure for Draco, something to look forward to. He found himself bookmarking events, thoughts and conversations for later use, the most common phrases in his mind, _'I wonder what Harry would think' _and_ 'I should tell Potter about that, it might light up those green eyes…'_

One specific afternoon had garnered another such moment to be remembered, but for analysis rather than discussion. Walking down one of the many corridors of the castle – perhaps the same passage as that first fateful day, perhaps not – Draco had been witness to a sight so surprising it had almost stopped him in his tracks. Rounding the corner was an unruly black mop of hair, the slight bow of the head allowing it to shadow tired green eyes, framed by Potter's trademark specs. Now this may not sound all that shocking, but Draco was _very _aware of the silence.

Oh of course it wasn't _silent_, not by any means. This was a school full of noisy, cooped up teenagers and children! No, there was noise enough, all blurred into one hubbub of sound. Voices raised above each other in excitement, or outrage; laughter both free and cruel; paper rustling, books dropping, birds chirping! And the footsteps, my word the footsteps… Hurried feet, measured steps, strides both short and long; some people were running, some matched their steps, and still others seemed to be marching to some internal beat. But in the midst of this, one noise was missing, and Draco's ears were filled with the absence of that sound: _Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp…_

Potter wasn't dragging his feet. With each step, his shoes lifted all the way off the floor, and were replaced a respectable distance away. Draco's lips quirked, teased by the impulse of a grin; but Malfoy's didn't grin, and though Draco was no longer just '_a Malfoy'_, and never would be again, he wasn't sure yet that grinning was something Draco's did, at least not in public.

But his face didn't seem to have gotten the memo, contorting further into that unfamiliar expression as he noticed the peculiar look of concentration gracing Potter's face. Draco felt his heart squeeze with a fierce, almost physical intensity as he saw the beautiful, naked vulnerability also on display there.

At last the boys were face to face, closer, closer… and passing. Their expressions were carefully masked, each pretending to ignore the other's presence as they both tried (and failed, and so just pretended) not to stare. The same spark lit both their eyes, their hearts rejoicing in union with every second they _didn't _hear the echo of dragging feet – and a little at the thought of this moment they now shared, though neither would admit it.

Yes, the dynamic between the two had certainly changed since that first night spent walking together. The comfortable but enigmatic atmosphere of the one-sided conversations between former enemies had now been replaced by an easy, companionable tête-à-tête; sometimes it rose into a teasing battle of wits, but Draco painstakingly ensured that it never, ever descended into silence. However, things between them were far more different than he realised…

o0o0o0o0o0o

In the midst of the myriad changes Malfoy _had _noticed in Harry's behaviour, there was one thing that slipped under his radar, missed by those usually keen senses (sharpened as they were by a lifetime of looking over his shoulder). Draco's uncharacteristic oversight could be construed as a small blessing, a mark from the Gods if you will – a sure sign that they had smiled on this unlikely union. For if he _had _observed this tiny change –with all its enormous implications – he would have turned tail and ran; and if he fled, all would be lost. Harry would sink once more into the depths of despair, and this time Draco would be right down there with him; because if Malfoy ran from this, his destiny, he'd fall straight into the waiting arms of that darkness – and a boy can only save himself so many times.

So now you see why it was both a miracle and a blessing that Malfoy had somehow managed to overlook the new light that filled Harry's eyes whenever they were turned on him. That light was one of understanding, mingled with a new respect and admiration – the light, if he'd listened to it, would have whispered, _'I know your secret.'_

The sudden insight came upon Harry during a rare hour spent staring into the flames of the Gryffindor fire. Malfoy had detention that night but, it being a Saturday, he had slipped a note into Harry's books when he was studying in the library, rather than pleading his case with the house elves once again. Now Harry was faced with an unappetising dinner, surrounded by the same chatty Gryffindors whose voices had sawed at his nerves all week, and without the consolation of a walk with his new friend immediately afterwards to strengthen his resolve. Deciding he'd rather skip the meal altogether, Harry indulged himself by the fire, relishing the silence, the privacy and the warmth.

Curious as to what Malfoy had been caught doing this time, he let his mind and imagination wander and soon found himself questioning the Slytherin's recent kindness, and wondering about his mysterious understanding. Made drowsy by the heat, the malicious voice was quieted once more, failing to exercise its usual tight control over any topic remotely relating to his self-esteem; Harry was able to think clearly and reasonably, without being distracted by the cruel whisperings.

'_How is that he knows exactly how I feel, without me ever needing to say it? And why is it Malfoy, of all people, who understands what I'm going through? He never was the most eloquent person I knew, he put his foot in his mouth the first time we met at Madam Malkin's, but he's the one who knows exactly what to say. I always thought no one would understand what I needed to hear, not unless they'd felt… the same.' _–a beat– _'Merlin, please no…'_

Yes, like a light coming on in his head, the great mystery had suddenly been illuminated and set out clear before him. It had finally dawned on Harry that Malfoy _did _know exactly what he was going through, because he'd felt the dull ache of that darkness himself.

The realisation jerked him back to full awareness, and Harry felt his mind race, considering this new bit of information from all angles, fitting it into every scenario like it was a jigsaw piece and he was searching for its home; and so he was, trying to find where this knowledge fit within him, wondering how much it changed things, trying to decide how he felt about it.

So this was why Draco was talking to him – not because he cared about Harry, but because he knew he was the only one who could help him. But wait, why did that have to be a bad thing? As a Slytherin and a Malfoy, the fact that he had even _considered _helping someone, let alone his life-long enemy, was most definitely a point in his favour.

His mind jumping to another tack, Harry felt a pang of disappointment in his chest as he realised this meant Malfoy didn't have any kind of insight into his soul, any special understanding of him. (That did rather take the romance out of things.) But he told himself it didn't make a difference as Malfoy was still the only one who understood, and after that a little of the fluttering returned to his chest when he thought of every thankless but never missed walk the Slytherin had joined him on.

Then the full understanding of what Malfoy had been through hit him: the fact that Malfoy had _been through _it. Draco had climbed out of this darkness and lived every day in the light, even if it was sometimes dimmed by the shadows of what had been. Harry wondered if he'd ever find out the details of Malfoy's battle: what had caused it? When had he felt that way, and for how long? Who had helped him through it?

Harry thought of Draco's cold features and fierce independence. He thought of the disdain for friendship, family and love that had shone through in countless arguments over the years. There wasn't even any pride of self to be detected in the blonde's demeanour, just vain pride. _Did _anyone help Malfoy out of his depression? Or was he left to fight alone, smothered by the darkness? Forced to struggle his way out by sheer force of will, or give in and lose himself forever? If Draco had been alone, Harry thought, it would explain a lot; like why he was now so strong and independent – and bitter.

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Well? What do you think? I know this chapter skips over quite a chunk of potentially exciting squee moments, but it likes being vague and hopeful. And I did love the little looks in the hallway… More to come! (Also, neongreenleaves, I hope this is slightly less depressing for you! The drama is irremovable)

ThankyouThankyouThankyou to the four very special people who have my stumbling little fic favourited. And a huge thanks to HellItself! Your feedback and encouragement was greatly appreciated, and I'm glad I made you smile :)

Finally, an actual note: I know this story has very quickly begun to stray from its original theme of depression, so it won't do much good as an ice-breaker for those affected. But I'd still like to say that, like poor Draco, I may not have insight into your soul but I want to help in any way I can. I can always listen, and I'll try to understand. (People who aren't good with words are totally welcome too! I know that can sometimes seem like a barrier, but as I hope I've shown, I get that words don't always describe experience. Just start typing.) Drop me a line any time; I **will **get back to you. Stay strong, and **love yourself**. That's what got me through.

You are amazing; I promise.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Nope, still not mine. In fact, I think the week the final film came out would be the _worst_ time for Rowling to hand over the reins of her phenomenon. So it won't be mine next week either.

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><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

"Draacoo! Draco, are you even listening to me?"

The blonde in question shuddered to hear that voice, a combination of whiny and simpering. Pansy had been yammering in his ear for the past ten minutes, complaining about his appalling treatment of her or something like that. The truth was, Draco _wasn't _listening – he was in fact trying very hard not to, though nothing could stop that noise from penetrating his brain.

No, Draco had been much more pleasantly occupied, staring down at his plate and contemplating the afternoon ahead: he would be spending the whole time in Potter's (surprisingly delightful) company, as he had every spare moment for a fortnight. For those ten, loud, minutes he'd been frantically shovelling down food (at least as frantic as his Malfoy composure would allow, while also taking into account that he's a teenage boy), as eager to escape his current irritating company as he was to enter that of his former enemy's.

"Draco Malfoy! If you don't listen to me _this instant_, I'll… I'll…" Pansy's voice shook with outrage, rising to a shriek. The rest of the students were staring at them now, silently waiting to hear the end of a threat directed at Draco Malfoy, last in a long line of the darkest mages the wizarding world had to offer. Glancing at the high table, he saw that several of the teachers had surreptitiously drawn their wands, ready to defend Pansy from whatever curse the horrid Malfoy boy might send her way (after all, it was their job – even if she was irritating as hell).

Inwardly, Draco scowled; well he couldn't ignore her now. On the outside, however, he remained calm, raised his eyes from his plate, and turned to face the source of his disturbance. Over at the Gryffindor table, he sensed, rather than saw, Potter's anxiety; things had changed since they started spending time together, Draco's goals had changed, and both boys now knew exploding like a box of Weasley's Wildfire Whiz-bangs every time they were frustrated would get them nowhere. The question was: could Draco keep his head when confronted by such an annoying twit? Now, staring into Pansy's pug face as he was, he seriously doubted it; but this was important. He needed to show Potter that things could change. Somewhere, deep inside, there was a need to make them both proud.

"You'll what, Parkinson?" Draco spit her name, the only outward sign of annoyance he allowed himself. Other than that, his voice was actually surprisingly pleasant. "You'll storm off in a huff? Slip a snake in my bed? Tear the last page out of my book? Go ahead; nothing - you can do - will bother me."

Draco kept Pansy's attention on him, her surprise at his lack of reaction preserving her silence for the moment, while around them the Hall slowly began to buzz with conversation once more. He allowed himself a glance at the Gryffindor table: Potter was watching them, relief plain on his face, and for a moment Draco was grateful the Gryffindor's pathetic friends didn't pay him more attention. That look would prompt questions, questions he didn't think either of them was ready to answer. He caught Potter's eye and winked, coaxing out that small smile that lifted the corners of his mouth, and never failed to make Draco's heart beat fast.

But Pansy was fast becoming irate beside him, and he reluctantly pulled his attention back to the moment at hand.

His voice, when he spoke again, was dangerous, "And now _you _listen to _me._" Draco stared the girl straight in the eye, his gaze hard and stony as flint; she gulped. "I would like to eat my lunch! So why don't you just ask me your question, then leave me alone, hmm?" His tone had suddenly slipped up to cheery, and she jumped; coming from a Malfoy, this was far more terrifying than any threat, as it left you wondering when he would attack.

Pansy stuttered for a moment, eyes wide, before she called on her (rather pathetic) Slytherin composure. She was resolved to make the most of this rare opportunity to glean knowledge on the Malfoy heir; after all, you never knew what could be used to your advantage in the future. Plus, anything remotely resembling blackmail material on Draco had boundless lascivious potential; she had plans for him. Glancing around at the few eyes still on them, Pansy lowered her voice, sensing that Draco wouldn't be happy if this conversation got out.

"You've missed dinner every night for over a month," she hissed, before she was cut off.

"How very observant of you," Draco drawled. "Your point is?" The message was clear: this topic is off limits.

So she was on thin ice was she? Well that was nothing new to Pansy, and she'd learned long ago how to tread carefully. Along with strict composure, and a certain knack for gathering intelligence, adaptability was another trait of any _great_ Slytherin; it was survival of the fittest, and Pansy intended to make it big. (Interestingly, adaptability is also an important quality for a Gryffindor – perhaps it has something to do with the constant state of danger that students from both houses manage to get themselves into.)

Continuing to delude herself into believing she could win this, Pansy decided Draco merely needed a little persuading… Fishing around for a sufficient threat, she thought of the one thing she'd be afraid of (other than Professor Snape, Voldemort, and a bad hair day with no Sleekeazy's Hair Potion to hand): her parents. While she preferred to think about her father's line of work as little as possible (even less than she thought about everything else), she knew he was in contact with Mr Malfoy, and would be eager for the chance to lord it over him for once if he heard of Draco behaving suspiciously – and not in a Slytherin way.

Pansy's lips twisted in a malicious little grin. "My point is… perhaps your Father could shed some light on this strange development. Shall I have Daddy ask him?"

Draco swallowed his surprise. So Pansy was a real Slytherin after all! He didn't think she had it in her. The girl must have finally realised she'd never get ahead in life by fawning all over _him_. (He was gay, she was pathetic. End of story.) But all was not lost: though the threat was, unfortunately, an effective one, Draco was well aware that he had more dirt on Pansy than she'd ever even know about. He'd always been the better spy.

So in response to the presumptive argument, he loaded his full intent into his stare, letting her know he was ready and willing to match fire with an inferno. (Impressing Potter was one thing, survival entirely another.) Then Draco dropped his voice, so Parkinson would have to strain to hear him: "You don't want to go down this path with me." He managed to fight the urge to add 'little girl' to the end of his veiled threat; it would do no good to make her angry.

Pansy shivered. Pug-face significantly paler, but still unable to take a hint, she stammered out, "N-no, I… I'm sorry, I… thought you'd been m-meeting someone, I was j-j… I was jea—" It seemed she was unable to force the word out, instead reverting to the usual childish whinging; "I just wanted to _know_!"

Well shit. If _Pansy _thought he'd been meeting with someone, who else might think so? Not all Slytherins were stupid enough to show their hand so early in the game, or for such petty reasons. Thankfully, Potter's common attendance at dinner would deflect suspicion away from him (not that there would ever be any), and the Gryffindor's leaving early would still provide no hint, because by now it was the norm. But what if Draco was being followed? He forced himself to calm. Pansy had been unknowingly close to hitting the nail upon the head, but unlike the Parkinson's, Malfoy's were renowned for their formidable icy veneer. So Draco did what he did best, what he'd been doing all his life – he bluffed.

Turning back to his plate, he waved a hand at her dismissively. "Not that it's any of your business, but I've been seeing someone." The key to a good lie was to keep an ounce of truth in it, and in a manner of speaking, Draco _was _seeing someone – he saw Potter every day

But somehow, as the words slipped over his tongue like oil on water, they didn't leave that familiar, acidic taste in his mouth– the taste of a lie. Resolving to think about this disturbing revelation when he was alone (or maybe never) Draco let his rising sense of panic be distracted by Pansy's reply, rejoicing for once in the penetrating whine of her tone.

"Wha—! Who? Why didn't you _tell_ _meee_!"

Draco shrugged, the epitome of nonchalance. "It's casual, just one of those 'wait and see' things. Besides, you know what a rumour mill this school can be," _'Heck, you practically run it,' _"discretion is always advised."

"Well! Well…" Pansy spluttered, trying to find some fault in his excuse. Momentarily forgetting his earlier unspoken promise, she grasped onto the single hope she felt blackmail afforded her. "Does your father know? I can't imagine he'd be too pleased to hear this from—" She stopped; those steel grey eyes had narrowed dangerously, and she turned a faintly worrying shade of green.

But Draco didn't retaliate, just scoffed, voice dripping with disdain, "Really, Pansy! It's just a teenage fling, hardly anything to write home about." But his eyes told a different story, and she nodded shakily. Message received.

Then Draco's Potter-attuned senses caught movement at the Gryffindor table – he was leaving – and he jumped up, suddenly impatient to get away, to let Harry's lack of reaction calm him. He cut off Pansy's next round of enquiries, "No! No more questions. I need to study." He paused, considered, added, "No, Parkinson. Following me would not be advised." And with that, he rushed out of the Hall.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Harry had indeed left the grating chatter of breakfast behind, and was now walking, unaccompanied, to the library, the place he and the Slytherin spent most of their time.

One afternoon, about a fortnight ago, Malfoy had been escorting him there yet again, having spent the evening stuck in detention– he'd been caught hexing a fellow student, a 'poor, defenseless' second year. (Draco would never admit it, but the kid had been about to prank Potter as he walked past. He'd heard the giggles, saw the wand being raised, and before he knew what was happening, his seeker reflexes had kicked in. It seemed no one would hurt Harry again, so long as he was around.) Anyway, they'd reached the doors, and Harry had paused, waiting for Malfoy's excuse to be somewhere else; ready to pretend, again, that he didn't mind as the small flame of hope was dimmed a little more each day. But Malfoy just walked right past him, pulled open the door, and motion the Gryffindor through ahead of him. Thankfully Pince's back was turned, sorting books, and they slipped through the open area unnoticed, losing themselves in the shelves.

After a few minutes of quiet walking, the two stumbled upon a hidden table near the rear of the library, large enough for them to work comfortably, with a surface unmarred by the marks of bored students. Directly behind it a large arched window caught the sunlight, and revealed an intimidating view of the mountains behind the castle. The air was still, the dust motes undisturbed as they floated through the illuminating light. There was a pregnant feel to the space, like it was full of potential and just waiting for the right occupants to bring it to life. Without so much as a word or a glance passing between them, Harry sat down in this forgotten corner, with Malfoy beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And you know it really felt like it was.

So the table was adopted by the two unlikely friends, who pretty soon were spending every evening holed away, forgoing their common rooms altogether in favour of the cosy space. Both boys relished the time away from their respective houses, especially as it was time spent in each other's company. Of course, they couldn't fill all their hours with homework: they talked too, debating any superficial topic. In light of his earlier realisation about Malfoy's experience, Harry did wonder if the blonde avoided the more personal conversations because of a private dislike of them, as much as deference to his comfort.

All this talking still occurred in the library, however, and neither boy suggested they move somewhere more relaxed. After all, what reaction would you expect if the Boy-Who-Lived and the Malfoy heir were seen taking an afternoon stroll by the lake? No, they stayed cloistered in their private world, tucked into the utmost recesses of the shelves where no-one but Miss Pince ventured.

Not even Hermione made her way to their corner – she couldn't. Out of necessity brought about by being a Slytherin – and a damn good one at that – Malfoy knew many charms in aid of privacy. Tethered to the table was _Silencio, _along with a more complicated charm designed to muddle people's minds and keep them from reaching the alcove. If Hermione's Care of Magical Creatures work suffered because she could never find the books, there was nothing she could do about it but complain to Ron. Of course, Harry could have fetched the books for her, but he was rarely around to hear of her plight; so they stayed on their shelves, and her inability to find them was chalked up to some careless student having lost them. (During this repeated end to her rant, Hermione never once turned an accusing glare on Ron. Yes, he was a 'careless student', but he never would have borrowed them out in the first place. He didn't need them; he had her.)

Harry never questioned their need for the privacy wards, for he knew as well as Malfoy that no one would understand their unique friendship. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin spending time together without either coming to serious harm, even preferring each other's company to that of their own kind – it was simply unheard of. Neither Harry nor Draco was eager to put up with the interference, arguments, warnings and threats that would surely follow a discovery, and so the charms stayed up, and they stayed hidden.

The library became something of a sanctuary for them. In a school filled with enemies, in a world filled with prejudice and expectations, the little corner was the only place Harry, and even Draco, could be themselves, rather than playing the roles written for them. Harry was still plagued by voices, Draco was still shadowed by darkness, but here they had air, accepting company, and a little table reading: _'Malfoy's Corner.' 'What about me?' 'Oh ok, Potter, you can sit here too.' 'Gee thanks…' 'Hush, rapscallion!' 'Rapscallion? Malfoy, did you seriously just—' _Well, let's just say the table wasn't unmarred any longer.

With each passing day, each taunt, each smile, the two were drawn inextricably closer. Harry and Draco had, thanks to a chance meeting of eyes in a random corridor, discovered that one rare person in life that you're more comfortable being with than yourself; and for all the trouble that a public friendship would bring, neither could imagine giving the other up.

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Well, another update. Some of you have been telling me to keep updating in reviews, and I'm really glad you want this to continue, but I felt I should probably point out that I've almost finished writing (it'll be 8 chapters), and I plan to update every Friday. This fic **won't **be abandoned, so don't fret.

Also! A lot of people have been asking for more dialogue, or more action. I agree that yes, dialogue, and maybe some action, could do a lot to improve the fic. But I'm primarily writing this to get everything off my chest, not so much to tell a complete story. I'm happy with the general overview I've given, with the little scenes here and there, and that's what I think is important. Maybe one day I'll rewrite it in more detail, or maybe it'll stay as is. The point is, thank you all for the constructive criticism, but in the end I have to write the story how I think is best.

Thank you to those who reviewed :) especially my anonymous reader who likes my Draco! He likes you too. A HUGE thank you to JustR, who is my most enthusiastic reviewer to date. Your comments meant a lot to me, and really kept me going this week. This one's for you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Of course I don't own Harry Potter, are you mad?

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><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

Despite having left the Great Hall only moments later, Malfoy didn't catch up with Harry until he was a few staircases away from their final destination; damn that Marauder's map. The blonde had apparently run the whole way, judging by his breathing, and he looked flustered: grey eyes slightly too wide, mussed hair damning evidence of the path his hand had taken – repeatedly, too, by the look of things. The sight was so endearing, and so damn unusual, that Harry couldn't resist having some fun.

"Why Malfoy! So you decided to join me after all. I thought you'd want to spend more time with that _lovely _housemate of yours."

Rather than the cool response Harry was expecting, Malfoy scowled. "Oh, shut up. She's just so damn _annoooying_!" Harry blinked, surprised at the whiny tone – but before he could begin to make any comparisons, he got a little distracted…

Slender, elegant fingers had snaked their way into the blonde tresses once more, and Harry felt his own hand twitch in response. Sheer willpower was the only thing keeping it by his side, while his treacherous mind wondered what it would be like to feel the soft strands between his own fingers. He watched as Malfoy heaved a sigh, expelling all inner turmoil, his eyes visibly softening as they stared into Harry's own.

That gaze penetrated the foggy haze that was suddenly enveloping his mind, and Harry sensed something stir deep within him. He felt like his soul was being drawn around Draco like a blanket, calming him, calming them both. Their walking slowed, and stopped; they lingered.

But it was just a moment, nothing more; and like all moments it passed, leaving them with only each other. Oh, and the awkward silence.

Malfoy looked away; Harry cleared his throat. "What did, uh… What did Parkinson want?" he asked, beginning to walk again.

The Slytherin's panic seemed to return, a blush rising to his cheeks, and Harry immediately regretted his words; he didn't know what to do with a blushing Malfoy.

"She wanted to know where I've been disappearing to." A laugh bubbled up out of him, surprising them both. "She thought I'd been hooking up with someone."

Harry laughed this time. Despite the strange little fluttering he'd begun to notice in his chest whenever Malfoy was near, the idea of anything ever happening between them seemed a ridiculous thought.

"What did you tell her?"

Malfoy paused, the wait just long enough to bring them the last few steps. "Ooh look! We've reached the library. Sssh, we'd better not talk in here."

Harry threw a frown at him, suspicious, but did as he was told; he waited quietly til the blonde had disappeared between the shelves before making his own way to their private table. He was just about to step out of the shadows when something in the sight before him caused a tug in his chest, and he was stopped in his tracks.

Because of his head start, Malfoy had already reached the table and was beginning to pull out his books. As he piled them on the polished surface, long elegant fingers subconsciously brushing over the covers, morning light slanted through the window to halo his tall frame. It touched Draco's delicate features, drawing Harry's eye to the sharp angles of his face, and it lit his hair to gold.

Harry was staring, breathless, when Malfoy glanced up. He raised an eyebrow, and when Harry still didn't move, asked, "Are you planning on sitting down sometime today? Come on, the sooner we start the sooner you can teach me Muggle Poker. What did you say the tokens are made out of?"

As he spoke, Malfoy walked towards Harry and grabbed his bag, seeing he wasn't about to move himself. As he stepped out of reach of the sun, the spell was broken; Harry shook the lingering image out of his mind, and let his former enemy carry his stuff to the table. "Uh… The tokens? Some kind of plastic. It's, err… It's not as strong as metal, but it won't degrade like wood."

Malfoy nodded, a frown on his features as he digested this. "Interesting… You'll have to explain more later. Now, I thought we could work on Potions – it's the longest essay, and with your shoddy work you'll need to be fresh. Oh don't look at me like that! Alright, so I think _I _need more brain power for this one; happy?"

Harry's pout quickly changed to a smirk, and he pulled out his Potions book, finding the assignment easily. Without bothering to discuss who would go where, Harry wandered off to shelves filled with books on healing, while Malfoy disappeared into the poisons section. They each returned with an armful of books, which were quickly spread over the table, and flicked through each other's selections. Some books were frowned at, and put aside, while they exclaimed at others, "I didn't even think of that!" Then Malfoy darted off to the healing books, and Harry grabbed some from the poisons section, and the real work began.

Somehow, Harry mused while taking notes, when he was studying with Malfoy books took up a lot more space than they ever had with Ron and Hermione; which was quite a feat, considering Hermione would usually grab three times as many just by herself. Their table wasn't small exactly, so theoretically there _should_ have been enough room, but the books had a habit of spreading themselves out; each volume took up twice as much space because, once used, it was never closed.

So Draco and Harry were forced to sit close, elbows bumping, books and parchment over-lapping; after a few initial ink spill scares (diverted courtesy of their combined Seeker reflexes), they'd mastered a way of working around each other: Slytherin reaching for the ink just as the Gryffindor was finished dipping his quill; the angle of the parchment just so, to avoid smudges and inked sleeves; taking their time dotting an 'i' to be sure the other wasn't writing when they were nudged to check spelling, or asked for an explanation (eyes lingering on moving lips as they formed each word, brain working frantically to digest those words while so distracted).

Harry shook his head free of those thoughts, and glanced back over his work. What he saw made him freeze. At some point, his messy scrawl of the effects of various potions ingredients had transformed itself into the surprisingly elegant repetition of a single name: _Draco Malfoy_.

In his shock, a small part of Harry's brain noted that he shouldn't be surprised; surely everything connected with Malfoy would be perfect. Then his mind decided he'd sat still long enough, and it was about time he started to panic. Any second, the blonde may glance at his parchment and see his own name written there. Harry cast about frantically for the best method of concealment, but his thoughts kept slipping back to his own stupid mistake. How could he have gotten so distracted? All he was thinking about was their little pattern with the parchment, and the ink, and—

The ink. As Malfoy reached for the jar in the next second, Harry poked him in the ribs, making him jump. Time seemed to pass very slowly, and Merlin, this had better work, because if it didn't, Malfoy would surely look at Harry's parchment to see why he was needed, and he'd see it, and tense up, and ask Harry _why _he was writing his name over and over and over and over instead of actually writing notes for his potions essay, and Harry would have to explain that he was a little bit obsessed with the beautiful Slytherin sitting beside him, and then Malfoy would look at him in disgust, the way he'd seen him look at the other Gryffindors, even if he hadn't looked at _him _like that for months, and things would go back to the way they were, but if they did it would break Harry's heart, and all the progress he'd made would go backwards, and he'd be left with no one, alone in the dark again, and maybe Malfoy would retreat back into his own dark place, and _please Merlin_, let this work… It did. The bottle tipped, and the ink spilled in one glorious ark of glittering black, falling _right onto _those damning words.

"Oh Gods, I'm so sorry!" Malfoy's seeker reflexes were not enough to correct his mistake, and he was left with the only consolation available to him: trying to save _some _portion of the parchment, at the expense of his own immaculately clean fingernails. However, he was so preoccupied trying to amend himself with that lost cause that he forgot about his own parchment, filled with the only notes they now had to work off. Luckily, Harry was much more aware of everything related to Malfoy than he was himself, and he made his own lunge for the other boy's parchment, lifting it out of the path of the fast-advancing river of ink.

However, this left the two in a bit of an awkward situation. Harry's arms, holding high the rescued parchment, were threaded between Malfoy's, whose fingers were rapidly staining. The Slytherin was wary of lifting his hands, in case he dripped on some part of Potter, the table or a book that was yet clean; the Gryffindor had nowhere to drop the parchment except in a puddle of ink, and it was too bulky to bring through any small gap in the tangle of arms. Their eyes met.

Draco's mouth was hanging open in a comical 'O', his eyes wide and unblinking. The expression was so different from that of the usual Malfoy composure that Harry had to swallow a laugh.

"So… what did you need help with?"

At that the laugh escaped, and Harry giggled, partly out of relief, and partly at the events that had just unfolded. "Never mind, I don't think my spelling really matters now."

Malfoy gave a sheepish smile, and attempted once more to remedy himself by forcing a reluctant Harry to crumple his parchment, to be certain it would land _away _from the mess when thrown. His arms now free, Harry quickly pushed at some of the books in the most immediate danger, which of course pushed more books off the table, crowded as it was. Some landed spread-eagled on the floor, and he winced at the guaranteed lecture Hermione would give him if she ever found out, but it couldn't be helped right now. He quickly pulled his wand, muttering a rough _Scourgio _to clear the table (and Malfoy's hands) of the worst of the ink stains, and Vanishing his own blessedly ruined parchment.

Now that the worst of the danger was gone, Malfoy was free to brandish his own wand, chanting some infinitely more complicated spells, with wandwork quite superior to the careless approach Harry was used to seeing in Hogwarts' students – excepting Hermione of course. Instantly, his hands were clean once more, and the table-top spotless. Harry, who had often wondered at the blonde's constant state of tidiness, spared a moment's thought, _'So that's where the real magic lies,'_ before he felt a more audible response was necessary to the situation at hand.

"Where did you learn that?" Though perhaps _when _was a more appropriate question...? He'd never even seen Hermione perform something that complicated.

Draco's mouth opened immediately to reply, yet he paused, and frowned. Then his lips were clamped down, and he avoided Harry's eye and turned away, kneeling to collect the fallen books. He glanced up as Harry joined him, but the silence held for a few moments. It was an odd experience; uncomfortable silence wasn't something Harry was used to in this relationship. Malfoy usually hurried to fill each pause with a torrent of words, and if a topic ever drew near exhaustion, his refined manners allowed him to seamlessly steer the conversation onto another. It was one of the things Harry liked most about Draco, his ability to drown out the voice that tried to cripple him with its whispers.

But now Malfoy was silent, and Harry was left to fight the voice himself.

'_Damn it Draco, why won't you talk to me?'_

'_He's finally come to his senses… You pushed him too far Potter, he's sick of you. Any second now, he'll get up and walk out of your life, and you'll be back to shuffling in the corridors.'_

Thankfully, Harry had been prepared well. _'Don't be ridiculous, I haven't even _done _anything! He's upset or something, I need to talk to him, and _you're not helping. _So go on and crawl back into your little pit of despair, and leave me to sort things out.'_

He knew he only had a few moments before the whispering reared its ugly head again, and Harry was determined to fix this. So as Malfoy stretched for a book out of his reach, Harry picked it up and held it out. But when long fingers grasped the other end, he didn't let go; Draco looked up, and finally met his eye. Harry tried to communicate understanding, and trust; tried to remind him that he'd seen the Gryffindor at his worst, and helped him. _'Let me help you too.'_

But the Slytherin let go and turned away, reaching for another book, and Harry was pushed firmly outside, feeling more helpless than ever before.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>A short chapter tonight, but I have to say, it's my favourite so far. In fact, I personally think it just gets better from here. (I had SO MUCH FUN writing this one. The look in the hallway, Draco in the sunlight…)

Just so you guys know, I'm thinking of rewriting the entire fic – filling out the early chapters with more dialogue and interaction and everything; it's not a great read right now, even if I am really proud of it. Though goodness knows when that will ever happen… I probably won't start re-uploading until I have most of it rewritten. But yeah, I don't know when that will happen. I have school, which takes up about 90% of my attention, and other fics that I'm working on.  
>I will finish uploading first! I'll rewrite it after it's all up.<p>

Thanks again to JustR :) you're made of awesome. (In fact, you've inspired some scenes for the beginning of my rewrite, so thank you!)


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, the Gryffindor boys, the Dursley's, Jane Eyre, or A Very Potter Musical (you're intrigued now, aren't you?).

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><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

That night Harry lay in the darkness as usual, listening to the sounds of his roommates sleeping: Seamus' confident, rumbling snores clashed with Ron's random snort – as well as the occasional "Aaagh! No! Not the spiders!" (They'd ceased asking him to tap dance, but they still invaded his dreams with other seemingly random requests – Harry doubted he'd ever understand the redhead's subconscious); in a much quieter way, Dean's calm, measured breaths found harmony with Neville's slow, sad breathing. He wondered where his own sleeping sounds fit in the harmony.

Bed-curtains cutting off any light from the window, Harry was left to stare at the shapeless darkness around him, trying to make sense of his day while waiting for sleep to take him. No, not waiting, but fighting sleep. Too much had happened for him to simply succumb to his own fatigue; for Harry's day hadn't ended as hopelessly as you may have thought in light of Malfoy's sudden and protracted silence.

o0o0o0o0o0o

When all the books were piled on the table once more, Harry surveyed the damage with a sigh. Things looked pretty good physically, thanks to Malfoy's private knowledge of spells, but the reality was Harry had passed an hour or two on his assignment (ok, so he _had been_ a little distracted) with nothing to show for it. He decided to call it a day – or at least take a break, maybe try something else – and half turned to the blonde, but kept his eyes from searching the pale face. He wasn't sure how to handle Malfoy – maybe looking him in the eye would show support, show he cared? – but then, he'd already tried that, with no effect. Maybe if he ignored the subject, and didn't push, Draco would slowly find the courage to open up… Or maybe he'd just let the enquiry fade from memory, along with their friendship, and push Harry away. Still, it was Harry's only option til he had time to give this more thought; he wasn't giving up without a fight.

So, eyes scanning the shelves casually, he addressed Malfoy: "I'm giving in. Do you want the books?"

Draco glanced towards the source of the noise – his silence seemed to be that of one distracted, rather than helpless. Of course, he _is _a Malfoy; what did Harry expect? The blonde shook his head; Harry assumed it was in answer to his question, though it seemed to serve as well to bring his attention back to reality. Once there, though, he still seemed distracted, and when Harry noticed his struggle to find words, accompanied with a glance at the only remaining parchment, he cut off any further attempts.

"Don't even think about apologising for the ink. It was my own damn fault; I shouldn't have nudged you when I did. Let's just put these bloody books away."

Harry grabbed an armful of the nearest poisons books, deciding to make another trip with the rest; he wasn't confident with his skill at levitating, he'd leave that to the Hermione's and Draco's of the world. However, when he began to tread the familiar path, threading between bookshelves and not-quite-expertly navigating the different sections, he heard a second set of footsteps echoing his own. A sideways glance as he turned a corner confirmed the pretty solid suspicion: Malfoy, his own arms full of books, was following him through the maze of shelves.

Harry was surprised: this was going against all their unspoken rules. Yes, the two were friends; they weren't, and never would be, ashamed of each other, either because of house, family name or behaviour. Still, they knew better than to let themselves be seen in public. But with things resting between them as they did now, he decided against criticising the other boy's actions, instead pretending the awkward 'companionable' walk was a part of their daily routine. As the two stretched to put the last of the books in their place (Harry occasionally giving a small start as Malfoy silently levitated a book from his arms and to a high shelf with a graceful _swish _and _flick_), the silence was finally broken.

"Necessity; my father."

When Harry just looked at him in confusion, but didn't say a word, he continued.

"When I was six, my father began to teach me about our family history. He'd pace up and down by the fire, droning on about the great Malfoys, who were either terribly dull, or horribly cruel. I would take notes at his priceless mahogany desk, sitting on the rare Persian rug – a child with a pot of unforgiving black ink." Draco's voice was bitter and sad, and Harry longed to reach out, to comfort him, at least to tell him that this wasn't necessary, he understood. But Draco wasn't looking at him, didn't want his assurances; he needed to speak, so Harry held his breath and waited.

"I'd learnt to write in a precise cursive when I was four, and was already well-schooled in the Malfoy grace and poise, courtesy of long, arduous afternoons under the tutelage of my cold, neat mother. Still, I wasn't used to the company of my unfeeling, absent father; and his remote voice, repeating those pitiless tales, made me tremble. I spilled the ink.

"He could easily have cleaned it up of course, just a wave of his wand. But no, he settled for teaching me a more physical lesson; it emphasised both his and mother's teachings, and taught me all I needed to know about my great and noble family: you must be cruel, and you must be perfect, if you want to survive." _[AN: For a bit of further insight into Draco's past, check the end notes.]_

Harry stood, the last book forgotten in his arms, as he stared at Draco's profile. The Dursley's had beaten him often, but nothing in his past seemed quite as bad as this. At least his aunt and uncle hated him for a reason, for his magic they would never understand; Malfoy was beaten by his own _father_, for nothing more than being a child, and making a mistake! Anyway, what was he thinking, telling a six-year-old such gruesome stories as Harry imagined must make up their history?

Shock was quickly replaced by rage, but Harry knew from experience that such a reaction wouldn't help Draco. He struggled to find the right words, hampered by his usual inability and the growing anger; but it seemed Malfoy wasn't finished.

"Within two weeks, I'd mastered the cleaning spells; just in time to be readmitted to Father's company. I'd be a fool if I didn't learn from my mistakes. When you're a Slytherin and a Malfoy," he glanced at Harry and smiled, "or the Boy-Who-Lived, it can be dangerous not to."

o0o0o0o0o0o

Now, in the privacy of his bed, Harry thought back to his own mistake; that endless repetition of a name. _Draco Malfoy Draco Malfoy Draco Malfoy Draco Malfoy…_

Well that lesson was pretty obvious; he, Harry Potter, was obsessed with Draco Malfoy.

Great.

Strangely enough, it wasn't an unhappy realisation. He'd been denying the knowledge so long, admitting it almost came as a relief. Now things made sense. I mean, just look at the past few weeks… All the Moments that passed between the two of them; just today, there'd been that time with the sunlight, and the Look in the hallway… At least Malfoy seemed to be affected too, though not so much as Harry. Still, it was a small consolation.

Harry lay in the darkness, his eyes roaming the night while his mind wandered over this Thing with Draco. He ran through the Hallway Moment once more, pausing to savour that feeling of oneness, and homecoming that had blossomed between them. It felt significant somehow, like the completion of something that had been slowly threading between them since that shared glance the first day Malfoy walked him to the Tower; like a connection.

Suddenly another, older, memory tugged at Harry's focus, and he reluctantly let it pull him from that almost physical squeeze deep in his chest. It was of a lazy evening spent in the Tower with Ron and Hermione, years ago, before all this business of darkness _really _began. The three were all collapsed on the same couch, limbs overlapping, and the two boys listening as Hermione rhapsodised about some quote from Muggle literature, and how it perfectly applied to them. Harry remembered glancing at Ron, whose ears were flushed pink at her words, and whose gaze, he knew, was dwelling on the excited flush in her own cheeks, and the curl of That Hair about her face.

It had been so long ago, he couldn't remember the exact words, but the general idea had stayed with him. He _did _remember part of the beginning, something about "a queer feeling with regard to you" – Ron had snorted at that bit. Then there was "a string… tightly and inextricably knotted", it was joined to his heart, with the other end tied to the heart of the novel's heroine. Then there was the part that made his own heart clench painfully, that reminded him how much his friends cared – if something came between them, the string would break, "then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly." *

The whole idea had made Harry feel fuzzy at the time, as had the occasional remembrance in the years to come. But the reality of it now hit him like a blow to the chest, stealing all his air and leaving him gasping; because the cord _had _broken, and Harry was suddenly painfully aware of his internal bleeding. Somehow, though, Hermione and Ron carried on, oblivious. Perhaps it was because the darkness had crept inside him, cutting the string one thread at a time; perhaps it needed a _snap _to grab their attention. Maybe it was because the cord between the two of them was stronger than anything connected to him, though they were of course unaware of it. No, Harry couldn't let himself believe it was stronger; it was just made of a different material, a different love. Anyway, he reasoned with himself, they cared about him, he knew that, and the separation _was _causing them pain; it was part of what made the darkness and the voice so difficult to cope with.

But Harry's breathing was still erratic, the memory forcing him to realise the enormity of his loss, the pain becoming suddenly too much to live with. In the bed nearest him, Ron stirred.

"H'rry…"

He froze; there was something rather personal about an anxiety attack, at least one which had begun when you'd forgotten you weren't alone, and he didn't want Ron to realise what was happening, and cause him more pain. Besides, judging by his general reaction to Harry's behaviour as of late, he didn't imagine hyperventilation when completely awake, rather than dreaming, would go down too well.

"Harry?" He was trying to shake himself to awareness now, and Harry's heart bled more, with love for him for trying. "You alright mate?"

Harry forced himself to breathe out the unnatural amount of air beginning to sting in his lungs, and draw in a new, smaller breath. His voice only shook a little. "Yeah Ron, I'm fine. I'll be ok." And though Ron couldn't know it, wouldn't even remember this in the morning, Harry really meant those three words, had put his entire being into them. He _would _be ok.

Out of the darkness, Harry heard the redhead stretch, yawn, and roll over, snuggling back under his blankets. He sighed a little. "S'good. Night mate."

Harry listened as Ron's breathing quickly returned to its deep, even rhythm, letting the sudden burst of pain fade back to a dull, empty ache. He thought about Malfoy, living each day in the light in direct defiance of the ever-hovering shadow. Draco had reclaimed his life; and so would Harry. He thought again of his two best friends, and that lazy evening; thought of Ginny's stubborn determination to never just let him be; thought of Hermione's notion of cords, and hearts. Maybe things weren't lost… maybe they could be salvaged, and he could have that again. Maybe his life would shine brighter than ever, for having known and conquered the dark. Maybe…

But enough of that. Hope was all well and good until the smothering blackness discovered the flame, and fought tooth and nail to extinguish it. Luckily hope is resilient, but Harry wasn't sure he was ready to risk it, so he cast his thoughts back to the beginning of this chain: the connection.

He really did feel different now, and not just in the – he cringed to think it – spiritual sense. He rubbed his chest, the place where this cord was supposed to be connected; he could _feel _his heartbeat. Not just beneath his palm, but everywhere, filling the huge empty space inside him. The space that had been making him nauseous for months; the emptiness that would cause him to panic, and breathe deep so the feeling of his lungs expanding could prove he was still alive, not just an empty husk whose existence had fizzled out with no fanfare, and no mourning.

Harry could feel the cord, knew where and how it was tied, so he decided to give it an experimental tug. He imagined a scenario where the ink had fallen the other way, quickly spreading to cover Malfoy's (more useful) parchment. The fictitious blonde turned to him in shock, and saw Harry's parchment covered with repetitions of his name. Those lips, so devastating when smiling, curled into a sneer, all the words he dreaded falling from them at a dizzying rate. The malicious voice pointed out how _natural _they seemed; after all, it was _Malfoy _saying them. Had Harry really thought there was something between them? Poor, naive boy… No amount of wishful thinking could ever make _that _happen!

Draco, of course, would never speak to him again. He'd be left alone, to fall back into that darkness with a sickening crunch. Every glimpse of white-blonde hair, the absence of that smile turned upon him… It would be torture—

Yep: Harry winced; definitely bleeding inwardly. So the cord was really connected… Wow, that made things confusing. Life did seem brighter! … But at the same time, he was suddenly sadder. It was almost like he was lonelier than ever, because suddenly he was aware of what he was missing – painfully so.

But still, he had more important things to dwell on. The _real_ question: was the cord connected to Draco?

o0o0o0o0o0o

That night, Draco lay in the darkness. This was unusual: he'd never had much use for introspection. If that's what this state could be called… His blood was racing, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins was forcing his eyes to remain open, as if the lids were glued to his skull: no, not introspection; he was in a rage. *

The furious haze in his mind was broken for a moment, as he was distracted by a sharp pain in his chest; it was like someone had tied to a rope around his heart, and was now trying to pull the damn thing straight from under his ribs. He rubbed at the spot absentmindedly. It'd been doing that for a while now, starting up whenever he thought about—

How dare they? He couldn't believe it. He'd always said Muggles were animals, hadn't he? Well, this just proved it. How could they _do _that to him? He was Harry Potter! Courageous, modest, selfless, caring, sweet… How could they treat _family _like that?

Of course, the voice of Draco's reason – sometimes welcome, often not – interrupted him at this point:  
><em>'It's no worse than what Lucius has done to you. In fact, hasn't he done worse? Didn't you almost <em>die_, at least once? That never happened to Potter; at least, he didn't mention it.'_

Today, Draco was in denial, and so Reason was **particularly** unwelcome.  
><em>'I don't care! That was… different. Father is a Death Eater, and a Malfoy – he's <em>supposed _to be a bastard. But Harry had already lost his parents; he didn't deserve what they did to him.'_

Yes, Draco knew about the Dursley's. He knew about the cupboard under the stairs (while Harry may now be amused by the direction of his first Hogwarts letter, Draco _wasn't_), Dudley's gang, the beatings… The cooking! Treating the Boy-Who-Lived as some sort of Muggle equivalent of a house elf; it was unheard of.

He knew quite a bit now about Harry's past: it was probably a bad move considering the steadily accumulating homework, but the two had spent the afternoon swapping stories about life at 'home' – well, I say swapping… Draco didn't share much. He trusted Harry more than anyone else on Earth – more than he should – but sharing his deep, dark – shameful – secrets? That went completely against his nature.

Because he was holding back himself, Draco could perfectly recognize the same signs in Potter's tales and behaviour. _He _was keeping quiet out of self-preservation, he could admit that – and a bit of shame, which he wouldn't acknowledge. But why was _Harry_? Draco suspected it had something to do with voices: he knew all too well the struggle it took to subdue that voice, your voice, as it tried to convince you nearly every second of every day that you were worthless, and pathetic, and didn't deserve to live, but didn't deserve to die. Naturally, Harry would want to avoid giving it more ammunition than he needed to. Indeed, the fact that he gave it any at all in his effort to show Draco he understood caused a rush of gratitude to dull the Slytherin's anger once more, or at least push it aside.

But, of course, the fury came back with a vengeance when he considered this further virtue that had been betrayed by the Dursley's, and he fell asleep to plans of revenge, such as only a Malfoy and a Slytherin could conjure. In his rage Draco had forgotten all the other, more pleasant, events of the day: a Look in the hallway, a dazed Potter watching him in the library, a glimpse of a certain Gryffindor's parchment, mere moments before it was submerged in a river of ink…

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Sorry for the late update. I was pretty sick on Friday night, then spent my weekend frantically doing homework… But I've reviewed and edited tonight (and I didn't change a thing, go figure), so here's the latest update! I quite like this one. Apologies again.

**Draco's past: **I don't really feel my words here did justice to the image inside my head. The whole scene couldn't really be incorporated without Draco waxing even more lyrical, and getting a bit self-obsessed. I can perfectly see little Draco, with his pale blonde hair and effeminate features, staring up at Lucius with wide, grey eyes. He's wearing black robes with a white lace collar sitting over the top; and white socks inside brightly shined leather shoes. (A little Edwardian perhaps?) His father would seem impossibly tall, long blonde hair and black suit and robes silhouetted by the fire, the edges of the memory blurred with age. Draco would know to fear the elegant, silver-handled cane, wary of it tripping, jabbing, lashing or hexing him. Lucius would be staring down at his son, almost dismissively, hard eyes cool and remote – unmoved by his child, unless stirred to anger. Then there's Narcissa, as cold in appearance as Helen McCrory from the films, but without the emotion, or love for Draco. The memory of her is in harsh daylight, standing tall and straight by the large windows, only speaking to criticise his progress in those long lessons, less terrifying than his father's, but infinitely more dull without the fear to take the edge off the boredom. He wants to please her, to make her proud. He wants her to love him.

**Blatant theft:  
><strong>"I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you-especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly." – _Jane Eyre_, Charlotte Bronte

"I'M IN A RAGE!" – A Very Potter Musical


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Draco's brooding, Harry's uncontrollable hair, Ron's temper, Hermione's... enthusiasm, or Blaine's perfect rock-hard abs (but who's noticed those?). I _do _own a certain Sacrificial Slytherin, however. I _don't _own the works of literary geniuses such as Austen or Shakespeare.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

Draco awoke the next morning feeling tired, pissed off, and resolved. His long overdue sleep had been poisoned by dreams of a small boy with scruffy, dark hair and a lightning scar being tormented by three much larger figures, distorted by dream reality into looming and threatening creatures. They crowded around the boy, laughing, jeering, mocking, taunting, shouting, striking… Through it all, he stood with the child just out of reach, helpless to do anything but watch, unable even to comfort the trembling hero.

Somewhere towards the end of his revenge plans, as sleep began to take him, Draco had come to a decision. He couldn't go back, couldn't change the past and save Harry hurt, but he could change the future. If he was totally honest, Draco had come to this conclusion long ago – the day his eyes first connected with Potter's in that echoing hall – but last night, tired and frustrated, he gave into his better feelings and let himself acknowledge the fact: Potter was his to protect.

In the unforgiving light of morning, his decision was reinforced by the lingering memory of dreams; as the bone-reaching cold of the Slytherin dungeon penetrated his sleepy haze, those thoughts dissipated like mist, and he was left with only the resolution, inexplicably stronger after a night's sleep.

The door to the bathroom slammed shut as Blaise made his way back into the room, towel clutched around his waist with one hand. Draco averted his eyes, steeled his feet against the cold and his composure against the day, and threw back the covers.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Harry woke up happy. Beautiful thoughts had drifted him to sleep, beautiful dreams had floated by in the night, and now the beautiful morning light pierced him to consciousness. Unfortunately, the beautiful warmth of his beautiful, big bed was not really conducive to getting up… Still, it was Sunday, and the day's possibilities loomed in his mind. He'd see Draco today; of course, he saw the blonde _every _day, but today was different. Today was yesterday's tomorrow. Today was a gift.

Alas, it is a truth (not as universally acknowledged as it perhaps should be*) that just because the sun is shining on _you_, it doesn't mean the rest of the world is not in darkness. Ron did _not _wake up happy. He'd been woken sometime in the night by the familiar sounds of his best mate in the grip of a nightmare; this almost nightly occurrence hadn't changed simply because the rest of Harry's life had. Remembering a conversation with Hermione earlier that day, he'd recalled her insistence that they had to help Harry in any way they could. Years of habit making it almost a reflex, he did so – or as much as he could when half asleep, anyway.

But this morning it was all the same: Harry got up with the same quiet reluctance, the other boys ignoring him as they stumbled around the room finding clothes, throwing insults and objects. The only difference Ron noticed was in Harry's ritualistic glance in his direction. It happened every morning, but from the other boy's determination, it seemed today he was actually _supposed_ to notice it. But other than that one change, that one small acknowledgement, Harry was the same man; unfortunately, so was Ron.

He was fed up with all this drama, utterly sick of all this crap. He knew, somewhere in the very back of his mind, that Harry couldn't help this. It wasn't his fault; he wasn't himself; he needed help. Unfortunately, somewhere in the forefront of his mind, Ron also knew that Hermione cried herself to sleep most nights; Lavender and Parvati hadn't needed to ask why. He knew that Ginny's grades were suffering – she was distracted in class, and spent all her free time trying to lure Harry out of himself. Ron knew his mum was frantic with worry, terrified to lose another child, but unsure what she could do. He knew McGonagall had gotten more frown lines in the last few months than during the twins' entire education. Ron knew the Quidditch team couldn't survive without their seeker. He knew he couldn't survive without his best mate. And Ron knew that Harry noticed none of this.

The fool'd never realised how important he was to the people in his life, never in all their years together. No, it was Ron who was the listening ear to most of his worried friends, Ron who noticed what Harry was oblivious to. Normally Ron understood; Harry just wasn't as people smart. But this… Anyone with eyes could see the impact his problems were having on the people around him, but all his attention was focused inwards; Harry was as blind to reality as if he hadn't been wearing glasses.

When he and Harry left their room, Ron noticed the hesitant smile on the other boy's face as they joined Hermione. He noticed the way her eyes lit up, in a way they never had when _he_ smiled. Hermione, of course, knew better than to push Harry, so she didn't hound him with questions and expectations on the way to breakfast. Still, after ten minutes of traversing the well-known corridors, the silence was becoming a little awkward – ok, a lot. Ron had tried a few topics already, but each statement was greeted with a curious, hopeful look towards Harry; after the seventh such reaction, he gave up.

By this stage, Ron was reigning in anger with every step – maybe he _had _changed a little. So when Hermione spotted a fellow Ancient Runes student, a nervous Ravenclaw boy, he waved her off to discuss the latest essay. He watched her run, unruly brown hair streaming behind her, regretting the inevitable pain even as he planned the betrayal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Harry, too, had stopped walking; he had a nervous look on his face, as if he could feel the air thicken – when Harry was angry, it was always crackling magic; with Ron, it was just tension.

They had stopped in the Transfiguration courtyard, about five minutes' walk from McGonagall's classroom. A few students, mostly Gryffindors, were taking their time to cross the rare patch of sunlight, dawdling as they ambled to the Great Hall. At last, Hermione disappeared around the corner, and the sounds of enthusiastic debate faded behind her.

Harry swallowed. Ron turned.

o0o0o0o0o0o

"Draco Malfoy?"

Draco looked up, torn away from his alternating thoughts of gathering anger and fluttering joy. He was surprised – no one ever spoke to him with that much politeness, especially not at Hogwarts. And surely there was no one in all of the Wizarding World who didn't know the face of the youngest Death Eater on sight.

He was even more surprised when he glanced around the hall, and no one was there. After all, what good would it do him to hallucinate hearing a polite voice with no body attached? Draco was sure there would be method in his madness *, like in all things – there was even method to Potter, though nothing could be done about that hair.

"I'm sorry to bother you."

More politeness – it sounded from behind him this time. Draco spun around – and on the wall was a portrait. Nothing unusual about that, but most portraits tended to be 'subtly' observing the live inhabitants of the halls, or gossiping with their neighbours. _This _portrait – a young woman, dark hair swept off her neck and crowned with a wreath of flower buds, feet bare and body clothed in a pure white cotton dress –was staring at him expectantly, hands clasped before her. Despite the relaxed pose, she had an air of urgency. It was obvious she was standing in someone else's frame: the Sacrificial Maiden look didn't really fit with the bloody and dark battlefield behind her, though it did provide a striking contrast.

The girl's – woman's? – lips curved up in acknowledgement, and her head bowed for a moment. When he still said nothing, she raised an eyebrow, not-quite-impatiently, but still managing to communicate that she had no clue what-the-bloody-hell could be more important than listening to her right now. Right, yes. Responding was advised.

"It's no bother," came his smooth reply, followed by the reflexive cool-polite smile reserved for political situations and afternoon tea with his mother. His own pale eyebrow arched delicately and inquiringly. "Now, was there something you wanted?"

The slightly narrowed eyes relaxed, but then she spoke and her words distracted Draco from all else, throwing his mind into a frantic action that was most unpleasant at this early hour.

"Harry Potter is in trouble. He's been cornered by the Weasley boy in the Transfiguration courtyard, the portraits heard some students talking about it—"

She broke off as Draco abruptly turned and began sprinting down the corridor. Transfiguration… damn it, that was at the base of Gryffindor Tower, right across the other side of the castle – apparently the teachers felt it was best to keep Gryffindor and Slytherin as far away from one another as possible. Well, as possible for the Muggle world – surely Dumbledore could enchant some corridors or something. Hmm, a floating tower... _That _would be interesting. Alas, he didn't. Probably didn't want anyone getting lost; or falling.

Now Draco wished the founders _had _made use of enchanted corridors, preferably one that would bring him out right by the courtyard. But if Hogwarts had any such secrets, they'd rarely, if ever, been revealed to the likes of him.

He scowled, and picked up the pace, muttering all kinds of non-magical curses under his breath.

"There's an enchanted corridor ahead. It won't take you right to the courtyard, but it _will _get you out of the dungeons."

The voice came from his left, and startled him, breaking his stride for a moment. That was… convenient. When he'd regained his footing, he glanced sideways. The Sacrificial Maiden was keeping pace with him, leaving a path of disgruntled portrait inhabitants in her wake. As he watched, she shoved a gallant knight to the side in the middle of his proposal, rolling her eyes and muttering something about time-wasting buffoons. She _acted_ like a Slytherin, but surely none had ever been stupid enough to get themselves sacrificed…

The painted lady caught him watching her and smirked. "Yes, I was in Slytherin. Why do you think I'm in the dungeons?" Her eyes followed his glance down. "Ah, yes. It was Halloween, a Costume Ball at the castle." Then, surprising him, she grinned. "Aranea Black, which I suppose makes you my distant cousin."

Draco nodded; he knew her well. On meeting her, a lot of things suddenly made sense – she really was strikingly beautiful. Dearest cousin Aranea, while not the worst of his ancestors by far, had quite the reputation as a Black Widow – she'd had thirteen husbands in her time, before being murdered by an angry mistress. Well, I say mistress – it was more of a society really; they called themselves The Grieving Inamorata. Coincidentally, there were thirteen women in the society – this specific Black didn't kill for pleasure, but revenge.

"There, the tapestry at the end of the corridor, on your left. Yes, that's the one, with the very angry demon hordes. I'll meet you at the exit; hurry!" With that, Aranea hauled herself out of the top of a frame, using the head of some distant relation of Flitwick's as a stepping stone. Not bothering to soothe the portrait's nerves, he shot some spell at the tapestry, immobilising the threatening creatures in time to tear it aside and dash up the corridor.

He felt like he'd been running for hours, though the reality was probably only a few minutes. The path was taking far too many turns to be economical, even if it did ensure secrecy, and the thoughts churning in his mind only served to increase his panic, doing nothing good for his breathing or speed. What had happened? Why had Weasley gone off his nut all of a sudden, when Harry was improving? What would Draco do when he got there? Undoubtedly there would be a crowd, but he had to interfere somehow; this was the whole point of his attempts to help Harry, to make sure there was someone he could rely on when it all went to hell in a hand basket. What if it had already broken up by the time he arrived, how could he help Harry then? Would Harry even need his help? If he tried to stop the Weasley, would Granger interfere? Or would she be looking out for Harry? What if Harry got hurt? What if they'd gone by the time he made it there, what if he couldn't find them? What if Harry was in the hospital wing? Would they let him see him? They'd _have _to let him in!

All too soon Draco was gasping for breath, the effect of the break-neck running turning quickly into hyperventilation, and he had to stop. Leaning against the wall, body aching with the need to keep going, to get to Harry, Draco had to force himself to calm, drawing in one deep breath, holding, and letting it slowly out. It was a trick he'd learned during his own odyssey through hell, when the ugly voice had spiralled out of control in the dead of the night, and he would find himself sitting in the darkness, audibly screaming but unable to hear any sound. He hadn't used it for years, but it worked just as well now, though his patience was a little threadbare.

When he felt that he could breathe once more without puncturing a lung, Draco started running again, careful to control his thoughts and body by counting his breaths, timing each stride, running for endurance _and _speed. At last, he reached the end of the lengthy passage, and broke through the covering tapestry. True to her word, in the portrait opposite stood Aranea; she opened her mouth to speak, probably to ask what took him so long, but after one look into his frantic eyes she changed her mind, and merely said, "This way," taking off again without waiting to see if he heard.

A few more moments of running, pushing, stumbling and falling – all with forward momentum – brought them to the final hallway; the door to the courtyard was right there. He glanced at Aranea – a proud smile, "Good luck, little cousin; I'll keep in touch" – then pushed through into the sunlight.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Here's another update for you all – the second last chapter. Which means I should probably finish Chapter 8 sometime... So here's a little background on Aranea (Array-knee-a) Black: Aranea used to be a constellation, though it's now a genus of spider. According to Wiki, Aranea means long-legged spider. Think about it, a Slytherin and a Black, whose name means spider? Black Widow anyone?  
>Also, she's my first OC! She has the commanding composure of McGonagall and the beauty of the Black sisters, but really she's like a seductive, Slytherin Tonks. (The Grieving Inamorata – how awesome does that sound?)<p>

Thank you to kura-wolfgoddess, who had lovely things to say about my writing. Thankyouthankyouthankyou!  
>To JustR – hope you're ok sweetie, can't wait to hear from you again. Your reviews have been great motivation for me to update.<p>

Next, there was a little of my personal experience in this chapter again. Other than Draco 'steeling himself for the day' – because don't we all have to do that sometimes? – there was the scene of night-time screaming. It's one of my more vivid and creepifying memories, sitting on the edge of my bed and seeing my reflection in the window, because my bedside lamp was on. I was rocking back and forth, and my face was all contorted, and my mouth was wide open, like I was screaming. It really felt like I was grieving; I can't tell you why I felt that way, or what prompted it, or articulate anything other than a huge deep feeling of grief. The strange thing was I was distant from it all – it's not like I was looking down on the scene, but I think seeing my reflection let me distance myself further. I remember thinking how strange my face looked, and noticing in a detached way that I was really upset – just upset, nothing more dramatic than that. Then the next thing I remember is Mum suddenly sitting down next to me, and grabbing me, and rocking me, and I remember staring without focus at nothing, not even a fixed point, and not saying a word – because I didn't want to worry her more. I couldn't make things worse, so I didn't react at all. It wasn't until much later that it clicked – I hadn't just _looked_ like I was screaming. That was probably my darkest/strangest moment.

**Blatant theft: (Not quite so blatant this week, just some vague references)**

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." – _Pride and Prejudice_, Jane Austen

"Though this be madness,  
>Yet there is method in't" – <em>Hamlet, <em>William Shakespeare


	8. Chapter 8

The End is Nigh!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, just this random plot arc.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

Harry wished it was _not_ a Sunday. In fact, right now, he wholeheartedly wished it was the first day of the summer holidays, and he wouldn't have to face his friend for the next four months.

Ronald Weasley was _pissed_. That was the only way Harry could describe it really, he'd never seen the other boy so angry. Ron was well-known for having a short fuse, he blew his top regularly. But considering the number of things he was currently shrieking at Harry about, and the constant mentioning of terms such as 'months' and 'weeks', he'd been holding onto this one for a while. Bottling up emotions apparently did not work well for him; it seemed that the anger just simmered and fermented, becoming even more potent, until eventually the frustatious gases (frustration*noxious = frustratious) built up too much, someone nudged the cork, and he exploded. It _was _a pity his magic wasn't more wild; the resulting fireworks show would have been a sight to see.

It was strange to think that barely ten minutes had passed since Hermione disappeared around that corner. Ron's anger had certainly managed to build in that time, yet he still wasn't out of painfully accurate accusations to throw at Harry. Listening to the swiftly rising decibels, he was surprised to recall how quietly and 'calmly' this little discussion had begun…

o0o0o0o0o0o

"How dare you not speak to her?"

Harry flinched as Ron turned his direct and angry gaze on him, quietly seething but with clenched fists, trying to curb his full reaction.

"What is it; the great Harry Potter's too busy focussing on his own miserable self? You can't even spare a glance, put out a bit of effort to comfort your best friend?"

Harry made no response. In reality, Ron hadn't expected one – the boy rarely exerted himself to speak, and being hit with the full force of a Weasley's anger had never really done much to loosen his tongue.

But this time Ron _wasn't _unleashing his entire rage, he was trying to be slightly reasonable, and give Harry a chance to defend himself – but he didn't want to take it. What was the point in being _careful _with delicate little Potter if even that didn't get you a response?

"Answer me!"

o0o0o0o0o0o

A crowd was beginning to gather now, but they weren't the usual excited bunch of onlookers. Instead, with each foul piece of abuse Ron screamed, they flinched, apparently made uncomfortable by the sight of the loyal red-head getting stuck into his vulnerable, famous, mistreated friend.

That friend was standing quietly, folding deeper into himself with each passing moment, waiting out the storm like a punishment he felt he deserved. He made no attempts to distance himself as each accusation brought Ron a step closer, clenched his fists tighter, turned his face redder; everyone knew that violence was only a matter of time.

Then suddenly, someone was pushing through the crowd, hexes being thrown when people didn't move fast enough. Some expected a teacher, and prepared to flee in case of consequences. Some expected Hermione or Ginny, the only two students who they believed would attempt to enter the fray, and have a chance of forcing Ron to back down. However, the sight that greeted them was not something _anyone _would have seen coming; it was Malfoy.

Draco shoved the last two people aside, rushing immediately to Harry and laying a hand on his shoulder. Harry flinched, obviously expecting a blow – though many interpreted it as the reflexive reaction to being touched by the Malfoy heir. When no blow came, Harry glanced up, straight into Draco's eyes – and he seemed to glow. The tension and misery were gone, his face showing relief at being saved, and guilt at allowing himself to be. Some question seemed to pass between grey and green, and then the Gryffindor just barely nodded, granting the Slytherin a small smile. Many gasped; it was the first such smile they had seen on Harry's face in several months, and to be bestowed upon a _Malfoy_?

"**OI**, Malfoy! What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

"Just a moment Weasley, I'm a little busy right now."

Ron spluttered. "Wha—? What are you doing to Harry? Get your hands off him you filthy Death Eater!"

"Ron." Everyone froze; Harry's voice carried quietly and waveringly, but clearly, over the silent crowd. "That was unwarranted and unnecessary."

"_WHAT? _What in the name of Merlin's naked hairy chest are you talking about? That's Malfoy you're cosying up to! Malfoy you're _defending! _Or… Oh wait, I see how it is… Got a taste for **darkness** now do you Harry? Being empty and cold's not enough for you, you can't just settle for destroying everyone's lives, you have to go and shack up with some pathetic Slytherin loser just so you can get sympathy? Well, you aren't getting any from **me**! It's no wonder your parents died, who'd want to—"

His tirade was cut abruptly short when Malfoy turned, faster than lightning; his wand was pointing straight at Ron's throat. His voice came low and menacing…

"You want to shut up now, and back the fuck off. You will _never _speak to Harry like that again, do you understand me? You'll never understand what Harry's going through, and you should be grateful for it, because it's an isolating, solitary and portable _hell_. You would never survive in a place like that; but Harry's stronger than you. He's stronger, and he deserves better than a bloody prat for a friend, someone who's too blind to see when his best mate is hurting! He needed your help, and you turned on him. _You're _the failure Weasley, _you're_ the coward. The only person to blame here is _you_."

Apparently Ron had been pushed too far, and with a cry of rage his fist swung forward, hitting Draco square in the face with a sickening crack; his nose had been broken.

Blood spraying from his face, Draco made a sudden lunge of his own, and within moments Ron had been thrown to the ground, Malfoy sitting atop him to prevent any escape. The top of his shirt was already soaked with blood, the dark stain spreading at an alarming rate, but he made no move to stop the bleeding. There were more important things to do right now.

"Consider yourself _incredibly _lucky that Harry would be angry if I hurt you; because I could, so very easily… You keep that in mind the next time you even consider raising your voice at him; I'll be watching."

Casually casting a full body-bind charm, Draco stood, immediately turning to check on Harry. If his parents had taught him anything about love, it would have been about now that Draco recognised his feelings for what they were. After all, what is love but the impulse to place someone else's well-being and happiness before your own, preserving it even at great cost to yourself? But they hadn't, and he didn't – though the crowd certainly had some idea, if their shell-shocked faces were anything to go by.

"Are you ok? Did he—?"

"Draco!" Harry cut him off with an exasperated yell.

He frowned, concerned. "What? Shouldn't I have done that?"

Harry sighed. "Your nose?" A blank look, another sigh. "It's just a little bit broken right now. Can't we have this discussion later? You need to get to the hospital wing."

"Oh! Oh right, sure. I just need to do one more thing…"

Draco turned back to Ron, crouching beside him with wand aimed casually right between his eyes.

"Harry doesn't need you, not when you're being like this. When you come to your senses, and manage to pull your head out of your own ass, we can talk. Until then, you are to stay away from him. If you don't, I _will _know, that I promise you; and next time, I may not be so forgiving."

The calm smile, the first Ron had ever received from a Malfoy, was even more unsettling than it would otherwise have been, considering the lips which gave it were covered in blood. If he could have, Ron would've nodded, but the fear in his eyes told Draco all he needed to know; he'd made himself clear – inescapably.

With a satisfied nod, he got to his feet once more, gesturing in some random direction with an elegant hand; strangely enough, a path cleared in the crowd instantly.

"Well Potter, the hospital wing you say? Shall we?"

With an eye-roll and some muttering, the most lively reaction those gathered had seen from him for some time, Harry led the way.

o0o0o0o0o0o

This walk through the halls of Hogwarts was perhaps the most unusual the two had shared. Unlike in the past, one boy's injury had not been caused by the other, and unlike recent times, there was no steady flow of speech from Draco. His head was actually starting to really hurt, and he was feeling a little faint now…

Once Harry was absolutely sure they weren't being followed, he grabbed Draco's arm and pulled him into some small alcove housing a random statue. He then had to haul him upright when the sudden movement caused the blonde to very nearly collapse. By the time Malfoy's mind had caught up with the chain of events, he was propped up against the stone, held in place by one strong arm pinned across his chest; this did not help matters.

Still, some part of his mind rallied, and he managed to make some confused enquiry. "Weren't we just… err… Hospital Wing?"

Harry frowned at Draco's apparent inability to form a coherent sentence (though he couldn't know it had less to do with blood loss and more to do with proximity), and gave an absent-minded reply while hunting for something in the pockets of his robe.

"No, that was just an excuse. Damn it, where did I put…" He glanced up, sensing confusion. "Oh! Right, yeah. I know how to fix a broken nose."

Draco considered this, blinking, but before he could respond he was facing the business end of a holly wand. He tried to stare at its point for a moment, but that just made his eyes cross and his head pound harder, so he settled for giving Harry a nervous look.

He returned it, smiling grimly. "You know your cleaning spells, I know my healing. It shouldn't hurt, but then, I've never actually tried this on more than a split lip," he fretted.

"S'alright. Trust you."

Going by the wide startled eyes and the pink-tinged cheeks, this was an odd bit of information to be receiving, but Harry just ducked his head, before looking up again with a serious expression and narrowed eyes.

"_Episkey, tergeo."_

The rush of heat and cold seemed to stop the blood flow, and Draco faintly heard the bones clicking back into place while the dried blood disappeared. However, the swift change in temperature also served to make him dizzier, and he stumbled, before being bodily hauled back into place once more. Now both Harry's arms were pressed into his chest, one hand resting on this shoulder, the other still pointing the wand up into his face.

"Here, _restituo cruorem."_

Oh, that was helpful. The world wasn't insisting he fall over anymore, and the second and third Harry's had disappeared in a rush. Strange, though, he was still having difficulty thinking straight...

Draco knew he needed to ask what made the Weasel explode, needed to consider what was going to happen now the entire school knew he was protective of Potter (or would within the hour), needed to discuss where the two would go from here, and what his meant for their friendship – but hey, Harry's eyelashes were _really_ dark and perfect, and there was a smear of Draco's own blood across his pale cheek, and his really pink lips were just beginning to curl up into that smile that made Draco's heart flip-flop, and his belly tighten, and his breath hitch…

His heart stuttering, Draco grinned back. "Hey."

Harry laughed, "Hey yourself." His eyes flicked down to the blood-soaked shirt, and he frowned. "Draco, you're a mess. What were you thinking?"

His arms made to leave their place on Draco's chest, but the Slytherin found he couldn't let that happen just yet. His own hand drifted up to rest on one, the slight touch effectively halting all movement, and bringing Harry's surprised eyes back to his.

"He was hurting you—"

"I was fine!"

"You weren't smiling."

Whatever Harry's next words may be, they were frozen in his throat. Green eyes searched grey as the silence stretched between them, Draco's words echoing in both their minds. Harry wanted to ask what he was saying, but he couldn't make his mouth work. It seemed he didn't need to, however, as the calm grey eyes were open, and clear, and full of such depth of emotion… Harry marvelled at that, wondering if he'd ever reach the point where he could feel anything as strongly as he felt grief. But whenever that time may come, he could be sure he wouldn't be facing it alone.

For now, though, they were tucked into the freezing stone walls of an old castle, and Draco's shirt was soaked with blood that Harry's best friend had put there. The Great Hall would be buzzing with talk and rumour, if Hermione and Ginny hadn't yet broken the conversation to kill Ron. Life was about to get a _lot _more difficult; but things were looking up.

"Thank you." And just like Draco's 'Don't over think this', Harry's words spoke straight to the other boy's heart, and he knew exactly what he meant. Thank you for defending me; thank you for sharing your story; thank you for helping me with Potions, for asking me to teach you poker, for arguing with me on the wood of a table; thank you for bringing me out of the darkness; thank you for showing me the light; thank you for making me laugh; thank you for every moment.

Draco just smiled, and squeezed Harry's arm, finally searching his own robes for a wand; he'd considered just borrowing Harry's for a moment, but the spell he wanted to cast was a little complicated, and he felt safer with his familiar blackwood and unicorn hair. Besides, he needed something to occupy his wandering mind and hands… He was in danger of becoming too comfortable in this little corner, pressed against a wall by a boy whose words lit up his heart; he was in danger of doing something he'd regret.

When Draco did find his own wand, he set about cleaning the bloodstains from his rumpled shirt, performing each movement slowly, and enunciating each syllable carefully to allow Harry to study the actions. He bit back a smirk at the awed look on the smaller Gryffindor's face.

"There; impeccable, as always."

But Harry didn't seem to hear; instead, his brows were drawn together in contemplation, and a hand once again rose, seemingly of its own accord, to brush over Draco's chest, feeling the softness of the fabric, like freshly-washed linen.

It came to a rest over the Slytherin's heart, and as Harry pressed his palm down firmly, he felt the steady pulse skip a beat, his own heart giving a tug in response.

"Tightly and inextricably knotted…" he murmured.

Now it was Draco whose eyebrows were furrowing, as he wondered if perhaps it was Harry who should be visiting the hospital wing, or if Ron had done more damage than he realised.

"Harry?" he asked tentatively. "What is it, what's wrong?"

Green eyes darted up to meet his, framed by those ridiculous round lenses, and suddenly Draco was aware that he'd been missing something in that gaze, something that had been there a long time…

Harry stared into those stormy grey eyes, curious and confused and concerned as they were that first day in the hall. He remembers trying to count the different colours; remembers watching the corners crinkle up as Draco laughed; remembers them glancing at him with pride as they passed each other in the corridors; remembers seeing them empty, and full of pain.

Harry remembers how natural it felt to speak to Draco that first night; how natural it felt to sit just-too-close beside him in the library. He considers how natural it feels to stare at Draco as if the world and the sky and the moon and the stars are wrapped up in being; he considers how natural it feels to say,

"I love you."

Draco's eyes widen, becoming unbelievably round; he is motionless for a moment, not frozen, just out of phase. Then a moan escapes him, and suddenly Harry is suddenly against the opposite wall, being thoroughly kissed by the Malfoy heir. He lifts his hands to Draco's face, and suddenly he can feel those delicate cheekbones beneath his fingers, the soft skin everything he never dreamed it would be. And when Draco's tongue flicks against his, he can taste the tiniest hint of blood; it tastes like life.

The blonde pulls back for a moment, and as Harry's mind pulls up for air, the voice finds it. It narrows its eyes, lips pulling up into a smirk, and draws breath to begin its critical dissection of Draco's response; it's ready to work its power over the most magic of moments, and Harry isn't sure yet how to stop it.

But before the sickening voice can begin, Harry feels lips quirk up into a sweet smile, lips that are still pressed against his own. A sweet, lilting voice whispers, _"I love you," _and Draco's lips are forming the words…

As his mind scrambles to pull these pieces together, the other boy leans in, enthusiastic, for another kiss.

As lips brush his own, the world tips upright on its axis.

Harry is bathed in light.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> And so it ends.

Sooo first of all, I think that was my best chapter. I LOVE threatening!Draco. He is fierce.

Secondly, I apologise a million times for the late update – I hadn't written the chapter yet, then I was miserable and had no inspiration, then I had parties and open days and super angsty fics which both updated three times, then school and homework and… Tonight I have had a tantrum and discipline, so here it is, very late.

It's just a little bit exciting, I got the best response ever so far to the last chapter. You are all amazing. So many reviews!

For those of you who have stuck with my clumsy, unexciting piece of writing until the end, thank you :)  
>For those who have alerted, you rule. For those who favourited… There are just no words for you insane individuals.<br>For those who have reviewed, thank you a million.

Farewell readers! And may all your worlds be bathed in light.


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